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Polunin sat in his seat, huddled together, brooding morosely, deriving a grim satisfaction from the fact that all the same he had not broken the law. Henceforth, he never could break it; the thought of Kseniya Ippolytovna brought pain, but he would not condemn her.
Unlike that in the study, the light in here was not cold, but warm and waxy, so that again Kseniya Ippolytovna's face seemed strangely green to Polunin, her hair a yellow-red; her large, dark, deep-sunken eyes bore a stubborn look. "God has endowed you with wonderful beauty, Kseniya, Ippolytovna," Polunin said gravely. She gave him a keen glance; then smiled. "God has made me wonderfully tempting!
At half past eleven a footman opened the door leading into the dining-room and solemnly announced that supper was served. They supped and toasted, ate and drank amid the clatter of knives, forks, dishes, and spoons. Kseniya made Arkhipov, Polunin, a General and a Magistrate sit beside her.
Kseniya Ippolytovna looked at him curiously: "Do you know what the baby-mice smelt like?" "No, why do you ask?" "They smelt like new-born babies like human children! You have a daughter, Natasha. That is everything." The sun sank in an ocean of wine-coloured light, and a great red wound remained amidst the drift of cold clouds over the western horizon.
"This.... We were speaking together, you see.... Forgive me, but you could not speak like that to Alena. She would not understand ... how could she?" "One need not speak a word, yet understand everything. There is something that unites without the aid of speech not only Alena and me, but the world and me. That is a law of God." "So it is," murmured Kseniya. "Forgive me ... poor old Alena."
There was a smell of burning wax, candle-grease, and burning paper. Kseniya Ippolytovna was the soul of gaiety; she laughed and jested cheerfully as she waltzed with a Lyceum student, a General's son. She had re-dressed her hair gorgeously, and wore a pearl necklace round her throat. The old men sat round card-tables in the lounge, talking on local topics.
"The last time, I sat down to play a game of chance amidst the fjords in a little valley hotel; a dreadful storm raged the whole while," Kseniya Ippolytovna remarked pensively. "Yes, there are big and little tragedies in life!" The wind shrieked mournfully; snow lashed at the windows. Kseniya stayed on until a late hour, and Alena invited her to remain overnight; but she refused and left.
"Certainly, I am not one of the heirs," the general retorted smoothly. The night and the frost swept over the Volga, the Steppe, and Saratov. The general was unable to sleep. Kseniya and Lena were crying in the attic. Constantine arrived home late, and noiselessly crept in to Leontyevna. Bluish patches of moonlight fell in through the windows. The water pipes froze in the night and burst.
They sang The Goblets, and the basses thundered: "Drink to the dregs! Drink to the dregs!" Kseniya Ippolytovna offered her first glass to Polunin. She stood in front of him with a tray, curtseyed without lifting her eyes and sang. Polunin rose, colouring with embarrassment: "I never drink wine," he protested. But the basses thundered: "Drink to the dregs! Drink to the dregs!"
"But I have not forgiven you that June!" she flashed at him; then she resumed: "The library, too, is the same as ever. Do you remember how we used to read Maupassant together in there?" Kseniya Ippolytovna approached the library-door, opened it, and went in.
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