“Is it possible?”
“Why, of course! I mean what I say, who is it that plucks our unfortunate blossoms? What men are those whom we set up as heroes?” rejoined Lida bitterly.
“Aren’t you rather too hard upon us?” asked Sarudine.
“No, Lidia Petrovna is right!” exclaimed Volochine, but, glancing at Sarudine, his eloquence suddenly subsided. Lida laughed outright. Filled with shame and grief and revenge, her burning eyes were set on her seducer, and seemed to pierce him through and through. Volochine again began to babble, while Lida interrupted him with laughter that concealed her tears.
“I think that we ought to be going,” said Sarudine, at last, who felt that the situation was becoming intolerable. He could not tell why, but everything, Lida’s laughter, her scornful eyes and trembling hands were all to him as so many secret boxes on the ear. His growing hatred of her, and his jealousy of Volochine as well as the consciousness of all that he had lost, served to exhaust him utterly.
“Already?” asked Lida.
Volochine smiled sweetly, licking his lips with the tip of his tongue.
“It can’t be helped! Victor Sergejevitsch apparently is not quite himself,” he said in a mocking tone, proud of his conquest.
So they took their leave; and, as Sarudine bent over Lida’s hand, he whispered:
“This is good-bye!”