“Well, then, good evening.” And the woman moved forward carefully. “I’ll light the lamp,” said Foma in a broken voice, and, sinking on the lounge, he curled himself up in the corner. “It is good enough this way. When you get used to it you can see everything in the dark as well.” “Be seated,” said Foma. “I will.” She sat down on the lounge about two steps away from him. Foma saw the glitter of her eyes, he saw a smile on her full lips. It seemed to him that this smile of hers was not at all like that other smile before--this smile seemed plaintive, sad. This smile encouraged him; he breathed with less difficulty at the sight of these eyes, which, on meeting his own, suddenly glanced down on the floor. But he did not know what to say to this woman and for about two minutes both were silent. It was a heavy, awkward silence. She began to speak: “You must be feeling lonesome here all alone?” “Yes,” answered Foma. “And do you like our place here?” asked the woman in a low voice. “It is nice. There are many woods here.” And again they became silent. “The river, if you like, is more beautiful than the Volga,” uttered Foma, with an effort. “I was on the Volga.” “Where?” “In the city of Simbirsk.” “Simbirsk?” repeated Foma like an echo, feeling that he was again unable to say a word. But she evidently understood with whom she had to deal, and she suddenly asked him in a bold whisper: “Why don’t you treat me to something?” “Here!” Foma gave a start. “Indeed, how queer I am? Well, then, come up to the table.” He bustled about in the dark, pushed the table, took up one bottle, then another, and again returned them to their place, laughing guiltily and confusedly as he did so. She came up close to him and stood by his side, and, smiling, looked at his face and at his trembling hands. “Are you bashful?” she suddenly whispered. He felt her breath on his cheek and replied just as softly: “Yes.” Then she placed her hands on his shoulders and quietly drew him to her breast, saying in a soothing whisper: “Never mind, don’t be bashful, my young, handsome darling. How I pity you!” And he felt like crying because of her whisper, his heart was melting in sweet fatigue; pressing his head close to her breast, he clasped her with his hands, mumbling to her some inarticulate words, which were unknown to himself. “Be gone!” said Foma in a heavy voice, staring at the wall with his eyes wide open. Having kissed him on the cheek she walked out of the cabin, saying to him: “Well, good-bye.”