At last Schmidt broke the silence.
"Vjera," he said, "I have been thinking about it all and I do not understand it.

What kind of love is it that makes you act as you do ?" Vjera stood still, for they were close to her door, and there was a street lamp at hand so that she could see his face.

She saw that he asked the question earnestly.
"It is something that I cannot explain--it is something holy," she answered.
Perhaps the forlorn little shell-maker had found the definition of true love.
She let herself in with her key and Schmidt once more found himself alone in the street.

If he had followed his natural instinct he would have loitered about in one of the public squares until morning, making up for the loss of his night's rest by sleeping in the daytime.

But he had taken upon himself the responsibilities of marriage as they are regarded west of the Dnieper, and his union had been blessed by the subsequent appearance of a number of olive-branches.