He drove home thinking of nothing but her, of her love, of his own happiness, and the nearer he drew to home, the warmer was his tenderness for her.

He ran into the room with the same feeling, with an even stronger feeling than he had had when he reached the Shtcherbatskys' house to make his offer.

And suddenly he was met by a lowering expression he had never seen in her.

He would have kissed her; she pushed him away.

"What is it?" "You've been enjoying yourself," she began, trying to be calm and spiteful.