“She was silent!” said Foma, sadly, with a shrug of the shoulders. “That is, she said different things; but what’s the use?” He waved his hand and became silent. Luba, playing with her braid, was also silent. The samovar had already become cold. And the dimness in the room was growing thicker and thicker, outside the window it was heavy with darkness, and the black branches of the linden-trees were shaking pensively. “You might light the lamp,” Foma went on. “How unhappy we both are,” said Luba, with a sigh. Foma did not like this. “I am not unhappy,” he objected in a firm voice. “I am simply--not yet accustomed to life.” “He who knows not what he is going to do tomorrow, is unhappy,” said Luba, sadly. “I do not know it, neither do you. Whither go? Yet go we must, Why is it that my heart is never at ease? Some kind of a longing is always quivering within it.” “It is the same with me,” said Foma. “I start to reflect, but on what? I cannot make it clear to myself. There is also a painful gnawing in my heart. Eh! But I must go up to the club.” “Don’t go away,” Luba entreated. “I must. Somebody is waiting there for me. I am going. Goodbye!” “Till we meet again!” She held out her hand to him and sadly looked into his eyes. “Will you go to sleep now?” asked Foma, firmly shaking her hand. “I’ll read a little.” “You’re to your books as the drunkard to his whisky,” said the youth, with pity. “What is there that is better?” Walking along the street he looked at the windows of the house and in one of them he noticed Luba’s face. It was just as vague as everything that the girl told him, even as vague as her longings. Foma nodded his head toward her and with a consciousness of his superiority over her, thought: “She has also lost her way, like the other one.” At this recollection he shook his head, as though he wanted to frighten away the thought of Medinskaya, and quickened his steps. Night was coming on, and the air was fresh. A cold, invigorating wind was violently raging in the street, driving the dust along the sidewalks and throwing it into the faces of the passers-by. It was dark, and people were hastily striding along in the darkness. Foma wrinkled his face, for the dust filled his eyes, and thought: “If it is a woman I meet now--then it will mean that Sophya Pavlovna will receive me in a friendly way, as before. I am going to see her tomorrow. And if it is a man--I won’t go tomorrow, I’ll wait.” But it was a dog that came to meet him, and this irritated Foma to such an extent that he felt like striking him with his cane. In the refreshment-room of the club, Foma was met by the jovial Ookhtishchev. He stood at the door, and chatted with a certain stout, whiskered man; but, noticing Gordyeeff, he came forward to meet him, saying, with a smile: “How do you do, modest millionaire!” Foma rather liked him for his jolly mood, and was always pleased to meet him.