Aratov was beginning an apology.

'Listen,' Anna broke in again. 'I have an intense desire that you should
not believe that slander, and should refute it, if possible! You want
to write an article or something about her: that's your opportunity for
defending her memory! That's why I talk so openly to you. Let me tell you;
Katia left a diary ...'

Aratov trembled. 'A diary?' he muttered.

'Yes, a diary ... that is, only a few pages. Katia was not fond of writing
... for months at a time she would write nothing, and her letters were so
short. But she was always, always truthful, she never told a lie.... She,
with her pride, tell a lie! I ... I will show you this diary! You shall
see for yourself whether there is the least hint in it of any unhappy love
affair!'

Anna quickly took out of a table-drawer a thin exercise-book, ten pages,
no more, and held it out to Aratov. He seized it eagerly, recognised the
irregular sprawling handwriting, the handwriting of that anonymous letter,
opened it at random, and at once lighted upon the following lines.

'Moscow, Tuesday ... June.--Sang and recited at a literary matinee. To-day
is a vital day for me. _It must decide my fate._ (These words were twice
underlined.) I saw again....' Here followed a few lines carefully erased.
And then, 'No! no! no!.... Must go back to the old way, if only ...'

Aratov dropped the hand that held the diary, and his head slowly sank upon
his breast.