At last one of the matches burned, and the fragrant cigar smoke, hovering uncertainly in flat, wide coils, stretched away forwards and upwards over a bush under the overhanging branches of a birch tree.

Watching the streak of smoke, Sergey Ivanovitch walked gently on, deliberating on his position.

"Why not?" he thought.

" If it were only a passing fancy or a passion, if it were only this attraction--this mutual attraction (I can call it a _mutual_ attraction), but if I felt that it was in contradiction with the whole bent of my life--if I felt that in giving way to this attraction I should be false to my vocation and my duty...but it's not so.