Ivan seemed to be on the brink of saying something, but simply sighed and began to roll a cigarette.

"So there it is… It has to be said that I'm disabled. The doctor's warned me: I won't ever be able to lift heavy weights. And no question now of ever having children…" She pulled herself up short, afraid that might have sounded like an untoward allusion, then continued hastily: "My left breast's all scarred. It's not a pretty sight. And I'm missing three fingers from my right hand."

Tight-lipped, he puffed at his cigarette. Both of them were silent. Then, with bitter relief, she finally let fall what she had perfected at length during long days of convalescence: "Look, Ivan, that's how it is… Thank you for coming. But what's past is past. What sort of a wife would I be for you now? You'll find a good healthy one. Because, in my case… I'm not even allowed to weep. The doctor told me in so many words. For me emotions are even worse than carrying heavy weights – if the splinter pierces it, the heart's finished…"

Ivan studied her out of the corner of his eye. She sat there, her head lowered, not taking her eyes off the gray sand of the avenue. Her face looked so serene… There was just a little bluish vein throbbing on her temple, where her closely cropped hair began. Her features were softened and, as if lit by an inner light, utterly different from the radiant, rosy-cheeked girls throwing bunches of flowers on the tanks.

"She's beautiful," thought Ivan. "What a tragedy!"

"Now listen! You're wrong to take it like this!" he said at last. "Why are you so downhearted? You're going to get better. A fine dress and you'll find as many fiances as you want!"

She flashed a quick look at him, stood up and held out her hand.

"Well, Vanya, it's time for the meal. Once again, thank you for coming…"

He went out through the hospital gates, walked down a street, then swiftly retraced his footsteps. "I'll give her my address," he thought. "Then she can write to me. It won't be so hard for her."