I get the money, and who'll look after my business."
After a little reflection he added:
"Yes, really you are bored. Go by yourself if you want to."
Sophia Pietrovna agreed; but at the same time she saw that Ilyin would be glad of the opportunity to travel in the same train with her, in the same carriage. . . .
She pondered and looked at her husband, who was full fed but still languid. For some reason her eyes stopped on his feet, tiny, almost womanish, in stupid socks. On the toe of both socks little threads were standing out. Under the drawn blind a bumble bee was knocking against the window pane and buzzing. Sophia Pietrovna stared at the threads, listened to the bumble bee and pictured her journey . . . Day and night Ilyin sits opposite, without taking his eyes from her, angry with his weakness and pale with the pain of his soul. He brands himself as a libertine, accuses her, tears his hair; but when the dark comes he seizes the chance when the passengers go to sleep or alight at a station and falls on his knees before her and clasps her feet, as he did by the bench . . .
She realised that she was dreaming . . .
"Listen. I am not going by myself," she said. "You must come, too!"
"Sophochka, that's all imagination!" sighed Loubianzev. "You must be serious and only ask for the possible . . ."
