And tears dropped on the fashion plate.

"Splendid Masha . . ." I muttered; "sweet, precious Masha. . . ."

She went to bed, while I sat another hour looking at the illustrations.

"It's a pity you took out the window frames," she said from the
bedroom, "I am afraid it may be cold. Oh, dear, what a draught there
is!"

I read something out of the column of odds and ends, a receipt for
making cheap ink, and an account of the biggest diamond in the
world. I came again upon the fashion plate of the dress she liked,
and I imagined her at a ball, with a fan, bare shoulders, brilliant,
splendid, with a full understanding of painting, music, literature,
and how small and how brief my part seemed!

Our meeting, our marriage, had been only one of the episodes of
which there would be many more in the life of this vital, richly
gifted woman. All the best in the world, as I have said already,
was at her service, and she received it absolutely for nothing, and
even ideas and the intellectual movement in vogue served simply for
her recreation, giving variety to her life, and I was only the
sledge-driver who drove her from one entertainment to another. Now
she did not need me. She would take flight, and I should be alone.

And as though in response to my thought, there came a despairing
scream from the garden.