His heart melted with pity for her, and he lost hold over himself as wax, once molten, cannot be held in the palm of the hand.

In Sagal, Marish had felt attraction towards Divya, but it had been one of admiration, rather than desire. He was well aware of his lack of resources and lowly social status. He knew that a wide gap existed between him and Divya. But here, in Ratnaprabha’s house, Divya was no longer living on those inaccessible heights of pride and grandeur. She had fallen from there and was now at the same level as he was, and therefore, she had come within his reach. He had only to stretch out his hand in sympathy and he would be able to touch her.

This attraction, reinforced by a feeling of sympathy, grew very strong. He became restless, yearned for her company, yearned to have a glimpse of her, but his references to her past had upset and pained Divya. He had no wish to distress her. One thought constantly irked him: Would she continue to despair and indefinitely isolate herself from the world? He was still consumed by his concern for Divya when, in the evening of the following day, he attended the performance in Ratnaprabha’s concert hall.

Anshumala got up from her place near Ratnaprabha and began her performance. Her make-up was simple yet effective, and a smile enlivened her features as she drew inspiration from the music. Marish could not concentrate on her singing and dancing. He kept thinking to himself: Compared to this artificial and vivacious Anshumala, the Divya of the previous evening, clad in white, serious and without any embellishments looked much more beautiful. Last evening she had been free to voice the sorrow in her heart. At this moment she was obliged to be a purveyor of entertainment, an object of enjoyment with the admirers drinking in her beauty through their eyes.

The smile of humility that Anshumala gave in return for the thunderous ovation became unbearable for him. He waited impatiently for the spectators to disperse.

The performance was over. Tired, Anshumala withdrew into her room and with the help of Vrinda, her maidservant, began removing her make-up. The doorkeeper slave-girl swung a fan of peacock feathers to cool her perspiring body. Vrinda untied her bodice, and putting Anshu’s arm on her shoulder, was removing the armlet when suddenly Marish appeared at the door to the room. Not finding the doorkeeper, Marish had walked in, without giving any notice. Anshu shrank back as the maidservant hastily covered her shoulders with a stole. Anshu’s eyes were half-shut with shyness and her cheeks flushed deep red with embarrassment.

Marish turned back, with his head bowed. As he stepped into the veranda, he heard someone saying behind him, ‘Arya, the mistress conveys her greetings to you.’ Somewhat nonplussed, he went back into the room.

Anshu’s clothes were in place. Some of the ornaments had been taken off; others she still wore. Though her face was still flushed and her eyes shone with the embarrassment of having been seen partly dressed, a smile of welcome played on her lips. ‘Pray, come in, Arya.’ She received him with her hands together and head bowed.