know what was passing in her husband’s soul? How could she have failed to feel and to guess? No one is so absolutely the slave of his will at every moment, that not a word or a look should betray what is slumbering in the depth of his heart, or what it is for which he is hungering and thirsting. Ivan Hron was no exception to the rule. There was hardly a moment when Mrs Hron did not guess her husband’s wishes, if guessing indeed were necessary. Was she not a woman?
Hron would often invite friends to dinner or supper so as to have life in his empty, quiet rooms, and to see them a little untidy. There were times when he did not feel happy in the spotless surroundings of his home, where for months together everything stood in its appointed place, polished, and shining with neatness; where not a speck of dust was to be found, and the well-swept carpets hushed every footstep; where sounds of romping were never heard.
‘You are living like a prince,’ said one of his guests; ‘how comfortable this house is, and how charmingly furnished.’
‘And what lovely works of art,’ added his visitor’s wife, who did not get tired of looking again and again at the beautiful pictures and
