Raisky walked in the direction of home. His victory over himself seemed so assured that he was ashamed of his earlier weakness. He pictured to himself how he would now appear to her in a new and surprising guise, bold, deliberately scornful, with neither eyes nor desire for her beauty; and he pictured her astonishment and sorrow.
In his impatience to see the effect of this new development in himself he stole into her room and crossed the carpet without betraying his presence. She sat with her elbows on the table, reading a letter, written as he noticed on blue paper in irregular lines and sealed with common blackish-brown sealing wax.
“Vera!” he said in a low voice. She shrank back with such obvious terror that he too trembled, then quickly put the letter in her pocket.
They looked at one another without stirring.
“You are busy. Excuse my coming,” he said, and took a step backward, as if to leave her.
She made no answer, but, gradually recovering her self-possession, and without removing her eyes from his face she advanced towards him with her hand still in her pocket.
“It must be a very interesting letter and a great secret,” he said with a forced laugh, “since you conceal it so quickly.”
With her eyes still upon him she sat down on the divan.
“Show me the letter,” he laughed, betraying his agitation by a tremor of the voice. “You will not show it?” he went on as she looked at him in amazement and pressed her hand tighter in her pocket.
“I don’t need to read it. What possible interest could I have in another person’s letter? I only wanted a proof of your confidence, of your friendly disposition towards me. You see my indifference. See, I am not as I was,” he said, telling himself at the same time that the letter obsessed him.
She tried, to read in his face the indifference in which he was insisting. His face indeed wore an aspect of indifference, but his voice sounded as if he were pleading for alms.
“You will not show it,” he said. “Then God be with you,” and he turned to the door.
“Wait,” she said, putting her hand in her pocket and drawing out a letter which she showed him.
He looked at both sides, and glanced at the signature, Pauline Kritzki.
“That is not the letter,” he said, returning it.