"Listen, Georgi Alexievich, the minutes are precious. I waited here nearly half an hour for you. Let us, therefore, talk briefly and to the point. You know what Volodya is to me--I don't love him, but, for his sake, I killed a part of my soul. I cherish greater ambition than he does. Twice he has failed to pass for the Staff College. This caused me far greater sorrow and disappointment than it did him. All this idea of trying to get on the Staff is mine, only mine. I have literally dragged him, whipped him on, crammed lessons into him, gone over them with him, filed and sharpened him, screwed up his pride and ambition, and cheered him in hours of apathy and depression. I live only for this, and I cannot even bear the thought of these hopes of mine being blighted. Whatever the cost, Volodya must pass his examination." Romashov sat with his head in his hands. Suddenly he felt Shurochka softly and caressingly drawing her fingers through his hair. Sorrowful and bewildered, he said to her: "What can I do?" She laid her arm round his neck and drew his head to her bosom. She was not wearing a corset, and Romashov felt her soft, elastic bosom pressed against his cheek, and inhaled the delicious, aromatic perfume that came from her young, absolutely healthy body. When she spoke he felt in his hair her irregular, nervous breathing. "You remember, that evening--at the picnic? I told you then the whole truth: I did not love him; but think, now, only think, three years--three whole long years of the most arduous, repulsive work--of fancies, dreams, hopes. You know how I hate and despise this wretched little provincial hole, the odious set of officers. I always wanted to be dressed expensively and elegantly. I love power, flattery--slaves. And then comes this regimental scandal, this stupid fight between two drunken, irresponsible men accidentally brought together. Then all is over--all my dreams and hopes turned to ashes. Isn't this dreadful? I have never been a mother; but I think I can imagine what it would be if I had a son--a son petted, idolized, even madly worshipped. He represents, so to speak, an incarnation or embodiment of my life's dreams, sorrows, tears, sleepless nights, and then, suddenly, occurs a senseless accident. My little son is sitting playing at the window; the nurse turns away for a few minutes, and the child falls out on to the pavement. My dear, my sorrow and indignation can only be compared to this mother's despair. But I am not blaming you." Romashov was sitting in a very cramped and uncomfortable position, and he was afraid that his heavy head might cause Shurochka pain or discomfort. But he had, however, for hours been used to sitting without moving, and, in a sort of intoxication, listen to the quick and regular beatings of his heart. "Do you hear what I say?" she asked, stooping down to him. "Yes, yes--talk, talk. You know I'll do all you wish. Oh, if I could only----"