"You are right, my friend," said Kirsanoff, warmly, kissing his wife, whose eyes sparkled with animation. "To think that it has not occurred to me before, when it would have been so simple; I did not even notice it! Yes, Vérotchka, no one can think for another. If you wish to be comfortable, think for yourself of yourself; no one can take your place. To love as I love, and not to have understood all this before you explained it to me! But," he continued, laughing, and still kissing his wife, "why do you think this occupation necessary now? Are you becoming amorously inclined towards any one?"
Véra Pavlovna began to laugh heartily, and for some minutes mad laughter prevented them from speaking.
"Yes, we can laugh at that now," she said, at last: "both of us can now be sure that nothing of the kind will ever happen to either of us. But seriously, do you know what I am thinking about now? Though my love for Dmitry was not the love of a completely developed woman, neither did he love me in the way in which we understand love. His feeling for me was a mixture of strong friendship with the fire of amorous passion. He had a great friendship for me, but his amorous transports needed but a woman for their satisfaction, not me personally. No, that was not love. Did he care much about my thoughts? No, no more than I did about his. There was no real love between us."
"You are unjust to him, Vérotchka."
"No, Sacha, it is really so. Between us it is useless to praise him. We both know very well in what high esteem we hold him; it is vain for him to say that it would have been easy to separate me from him; it is not so; you said in the same way that it was easy for you to struggle against your passion. Yet, however sincere his words and yours, they must not be understood or construed literally.
"Oh! my friend, I understand how much you suffered. And this is how I understand it." . . . . .
"Vérotchka, you stifle me. Confess that, besides the force of sentiment, you also wanted to show me your muscular force. How strong you are, indeed! But how could you be otherwise with such a chest?"
"My dear Sacha!"
VIII.
"But you did not let me talk business, Sacha," began Véra Pavlovna, when, two hours later, they sat down to tea.
"I did not let you talk? Was it my fault?"
"Certainly."
"Who began the indulgence?"
"Are you not ashamed to say that?"
"What?"
