Anastasia got up meekly to prepare the coffee. I ate without saying a word, while she even excelled me in the eloquence of her silence. Never eating a mouthful, she sat there with her hands clasped in her lap, her eyes downcast. She seemed to be restraining herself very hard. The domestic atmosphere was decidedly tense.
At last I rose and put on my coat.
“Then you’re going?” she said, breathing hard.
“Yes, I’m going.”
At that her pent-up passion burst forth. She cried in French:
“If you go to her, if you see that woman again, I never want you to come back. I never want to see you again. You can go forever.”
“You forget,” I said, “this is my house.”
She bowed her head. “Yes, you are right. I am nothing in it but a housekeeper you do not have to give wages to, a convenience for you. But that will be all right; I will go.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “Really, you’re too absurd.”
Suddenly she came to me and threw her arms around me, looking frantically into my eyes.