Foma felt intolerably ashamed in her presence; but no sooner did she disappear behind the door than he jumped up and seated himself on the lounge. Then he arose, staggering, and at once he was seized with the feeling of having lost something very valuable, something whose presence he did not seem to have noticed in himself until the moment it was lost. But immediately a new, manly feeling of self-pride took possession of him. It drowned his shame, and, instead of the shame, pity for the woman sprang up within him--for the half-clad woman, who went out alone into the dark of the chilly May night. He hastily came out on the deck--it was a starlit, but moonless night; the coolness and the darkness embraced him. On the shore the golden-red pile of coals was still glimmering. Foma listened--an oppressive stillness filled the air, only the water was murmuring, breaking against the anchor chains. There was not a sound of footsteps to be heard. Foma now longed to call the woman, but he did not know her name. Eagerly inhaling the fresh air into his broad chest, he stood on deck for a few minutes. Suddenly, from beyond the roundhouse--from the prow--a moan reached his ears--a deep, loud moan, resembling a wail. He shuddered and went thither carefully, understanding that she was there. She sat on the deck close to the side of the steamer, and, leaning her head against a heap of ropes, she wept. Foma saw that her bare white shoulders were trembling, he heard her pitiful moans, and began to feel depressed. Bending over her, he asked her timidly: “What is it?” She nodded her head and said nothing in reply. “Have I offended you?” “Go away,” she said. “But, how?” said Foma, alarmed and confused, touching her head with his hand. “Don’t be angry. You came of your own free will.” “I am not angry!” she replied in a loud whisper. “Why should I be angry at you? You are not a seducer. You are a pure soul! Eh, my darling! Be seated here by my side.” And taking Foma by the hand, she made him sit down, like a child, in her lap, pressed his head close to her breast, and, bending over him, pressed her lips to his for a long time. “What are you crying about?” asked Foma, caressing her cheek with one hand, while the other clasped the woman’s neck. “I am crying about myself. Why have you sent me away?” she asked plaintively. “I began to feel ashamed of myself,” said Foma, lowering his head. “My darling! Tell me the truth--haven’t you been pleased with me?” she asked with a smile, but her big, hot tears were still trickling down on Foma’s breast. “Why should you speak like this?” exclaimed the youth, almost frightened, and hotly began to mumble to her some words about her beauty, about her kindness, telling her how sorry he was for her and how bashful in her presence. And she listened and kept on kissing his cheeks, his neck, his head and his uncovered breast. He became silent--then she began to speak--softly and mournfully as though speaking of the dead: