Not that he was alarmed at Pyotr Stepanovitch's leaving them so suddenly, but . . . he had turned away from him so quickly when that young swell had called to him and . . . he might have said something different to him, not “Au revoir,” or . . . or at least have pressed his hand more warmly. That last was bitterest of all. Something else was beginning to gnaw in his poor little heart, something which he could not understand himself yet, something connected with the evening before.
