Only one way led from the camp to the town, viz. over the railway-line, which at this spot crossed a deep and declivitous ravine. Romashov ran briskly down the narrow, well-trodden, almost precipitous pathway, and was beginning, after that, a toilsome clamber up the other slope. He had not reached more than half-way to the top of the ravine before he noticed a figure there in uniform with a cloak over his shoulders. After a few seconds' close examination, Romashov recognized his friend Nikoläiev. "Now," thought Romashov, "comes the most disagreeable of all," and he could not suppress a certain unpleasant feeling of anxiety; but he continued on his way resigned to his fate, and was soon on the plateau. The two officers had not seen each other for five days, but neither of them made even an intimation of greeting, and it seemed, at any rate to Romashov, as if this were quite the correct thing on this memorable, miserable day. "I have purposely waited for you here, Yuri Alexievich," began Nikoläiev, whilst he looked over Romashov's shoulder into the distance, towards the camp. "I am at your service, Vladimir Yefimovich," replied Romashov in a strained, unconcerned tone, and with a slight tremor in his voice. He stooped down to the ground and broke off a dry, brown stalk of grass from the previous year. Whilst absently biting the stalk of grass, he stared obstinately at the bright buttons on Nikoläiev's cape, and he saw in them his own distorted figure--a little narrow head upwards; downwards two stunted legs, and between them an abnormally broad big belly. "I shall not keep you long waiting--only a few words," said Nikoläiev. He spoke with a strikingly peculiar softness in his voice and with the forced politeness of an angry and hot-tempered person who has made up his mind not to forget himself. But whilst both tried to shun the other's glances, the situation became every moment more and more intolerable, so that Romashov in a questioning tone proposed-- "It would be best perhaps if we went on our way together?" The winding steps, worn by foot-passengers, cut through a large field of white beet. In the distance the town, with its white houses and red-tiled roofs, might be distinguished. Both officers walked side by side, yet with an evident effort to keep as far as possible from each other, and the beets' thick, luxuriant, and juicy leaves were crushed and bruised beneath their feet. Both observed, for a long time, an obstinate silence. Finally, after taking a deep breath, Nikoläiev managed, with a visible effort, to blurt out-- "First of all, I must ask you a question. Have you invariably shown my wife, Alexandra Petrovna, due regard and respect?" "I don't understand what you mean, Vladimir Yefimovich," replied Romashov; "but I, too, have a question...."