Now, listen. I’m leaving for Moscow and I shall be away exactly one year. I hope to settle my affairs by that time. When I come back, and if you still love me, I swear to you that we shall be married. I can’t possibly marry you now. It is out of the question. And I have no right to make any promises to you. But I repeat that if I can’t marry you after one year, I shall certainly marry you sometime. Provided of course you still want to marry me and don’t prefer someone else, for I cannot and I dare not bind you by any sort of promise.’

“That was what he told me, and the next day he left. We agreed not to say anything about it to Granny. He insisted on that. Well, that’s almost the end of my story. A year has now passed, exactly one year. He is in Petersburg now, he’s been here three days, and—and—”

“And what?” I cried, impatient to hear the end.

“And he hasn’t turned up so far,” said Nastenka, making a great effort to keep calm. “I haven’t heard a word from him.”

Here she stopped, paused a little, lowered her pretty head, and, burying her face in her hands, suddenly burst out sobbing so bitterly that my heart bled to hear it.

I had never expected such an ending.

“Nastenka,” I began timidly, in an imploring voice, “for goodness sake, Nastenka, don’t cry! How can you tell? Perhaps he hasn’t arrived yet.…”

“He has, he has!” Nastenka exclaimed. “I know he’s here. We made an arrangement the night before he left. After our talk we went for a walk here on the embankment. It was ten o’clock. We sat on this seat. I was no longer crying then. I felt so happy listening to him! He said that immediately on his return he would come to see us, and if I still wanted to marry him, we’d tell Granny everything. Well he’s back now, I know he is, but he hasn’t come, he hasn’t come!”

And once more she burst into tears.

“Good heavens, isn’t there anything we can do?” I cried, jumping up from the seat in utter despair. “Tell me, Nastenka, couldn’t I go and see him?”

“You think you could?” she said, raising her head.

“No, of course not,” I replied, checking myself. “But, look here, why not write him a letter?”

“No, no, that’s impossible!” she replied firmly, but lowering her head and not looking at me.

“Why is it impossible? What’s wrong with it?” I went on pleading with her, the idea having rather appealed to me. “It all depends what sort of a letter it is, Nastenka. There are letters and letters, and—oh, Nastenka, believe me it’s true. Trust me, Nastenka, please! I wouldn’t give you bad advice. It can all be arranged. It was you who took the first step, wasn’t it? Well, why not now—?”

“No; it’s quite impossible! It would look as if I was thrusting myself on him.…”

“But, darling Nastenka,” I interrupted her, and I couldn’t help smiling, “believe me, you’re wrong, quite wrong.