They left the restaurant, overcome with tenderness, pressing close to each other, and softly humming the passionate, recently-heard melodies that still echoed in their ears. The night was dark and warm and sultry. They had not far to go. Their hotel gleamed white, silent, and ghostly, between the trees. The door leading into the garden was ajar, and a streak of light fell across the path. As they approached they saw that not everyone had yet retired for the night. The dark beauty of the afternoon’s incident was standing motionless on the veranda, leaning her elbow on the balustrade, as though waiting for someone. She had taken off her enormous hat, and had thrown a black lace shawl over her hair. Between her teeth she held a red rose. Gzhatski passed without looking at her, and her glance followed him with a sarcastic smile. “She looks like Carmen,” said Irene. “Carmen in the first act, when she is tempting Don José.” Sergei Grigorievitch quite unexpectedly flared up. “Carmen!” he exclaimed in a white rage. “Carmen! Can you think of any more poetical comparisons? She is not Carmen, but simply a ⸺!” “Sergei Grigorievitch!” gasped Irene. “Well? You think that is not a drawing-room expression? Very well—I take it back, and I beg your pardon—but it expresses my idea excellently. However, don’t let us continue the conversation; it is time to go to bed. Here we are at your door. I wish you a good night!” XXI Gzhatski’s good wish, however, was not destined to be fulfilled. Was it the music or the black coffee that was to blame? It is difficult to say. But however it may be, Irene found it impossible to go to sleep. She tried drinking sugared water, applied cold compresses to her head, turned from side to side, got up and paced the room, opened the window—all in vain, for sleep obstinately refused to answer her call. At last, towards four o’clock in the morning, she threw on her dressing-gown, sat down on the sofa with a book, and hoped to fall asleep with the dawn, as frequently happened to her after a wakeful night. Even the book, however, failed to interest her—her excited brain refusing to follow the tangled thread of the sugary English novel. Leaving the heroine to drink a twentieth cup of tea on the lawn in company with the hero, who had just won a set of tennis, Irene threw down the book and lost herself in her own thoughts. Russia, her departure from Petrograd, her first impressions of Rome, Père Etienne, her meeting with Gzhatski—all this and many other confused recollections passed through her mind.