"I'll go into the Restaurant," Ilya decided, and began to cross the road.
"Look out!" cried a voice. The black head of a horse sprang up close to his face—he felt its warm breath. He jumped to one side, while the droshky driver swore at him; he went on away from the tavern.
"There's no fun in being run over," he thought quietly. "I must get something to eat!—and now Vyera is done for."
His mind ran still on the girl, his thoughts revolved about her almost mechanically. All the time he felt with one small part of his brain, that he ought to be thinking of himself, and not of Vyera, but he had no strength of will to change the course of his reflections.
"She's proud too—she wouldn't say a word of Pashka—saw that it was no good, there—she's the best of the lot—Olympiada would have. No! Olympiada was a good sort too—but Tanyka."
Suddenly he remembered that to-day Tatiana Vlassyevna had a birthday festivity, and that he was invited. At first he felt quite disinclined to go, but almost at once came an ill-tempered desire to compel himself against his wish, and then a sharp burning sensation shot through his heart. He called a droshky, and, a few minutes later, stood at the dining-room door, blinking his eyes in the strong light. He looked at the company sitting packed round the table in the big room, with a stupid smile.
"Ah! there he is at last!" cried Kirik.
"How pale he is!" said Tatiana.
"Have you brought any sweetmeats? a birthday present, eh? What's the matter, my friend?"
"Where have you come from?" asked his hostess.