my God! . . . But how to do it . . . how to do it!'
Aratov was walking by her side, a little behind her; he could not see her face; he saw only her hat and part of her veil . . . and her long black shabby cape. All his irritation, both with her and with himself, suddenly came back to him; all the absurdity, the awkwardness of this interview, these explanations between perfect strangers in a public promenade, suddenly struck him.
'I have come on your invitation,' he began in his turn. 'I have come, my dear madam' (her shoulders gave a faint twitch, she turned off into a side passage, he followed her), 'simply to clear up, to discover to what strange misunderstanding it is due that you are pleased to address me, a stranger to you . . . who . . . only guessed, to use your expression in your letter, that it was you writing to him . . . guessed it because during that literary matinée, you saw fit to pay him such . . . such obvious attention.'
All this little speech was delivered by Aratov in that ringing but unsteady voice in which very young people answer at examinations on a subject in which they are well prepared. . . . He was angry; he was furious. ... It was just this fury which loosened his ordinarily not very ready tongue.
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