etter."

"Very well! To Boles, eh?"

"No, this time it is from him."

"Wha-at?"

"Stupid that I am! It is not for me, Mr. Student, I beg your pardon.
It is for a friend of mine, that is to say, not a friend but an
acquaintance--a man acquaintance. He has a sweetheart just like me
here, Teresa. That's how it is. Will you, sir, write a letter to this
Teresa?"

I looked at her--her face was troubled, her fingers were trembling. I
was a bit fogged at first--and then I guessed how it was.

"Look here, my lady," I said, "there are no Boleses or Teresas at all,
and you've been telling me a pack of lies. Don't you come sneaking
about me any longer. I have no wish whatever to cultivate your
acquaintance. Do you understand?"

And suddenly she grew strangely terrified and distraught; she began to
shift from foot to foot without moving from the place, and spluttered
comically, as if she wanted to say something and couldn't. I waited to
see what would come of all this, and I saw and felt that, apparently,
I had made a great mistake in suspecting her of wishing to draw me
from the path of righteousness. It was evidently something very
different.

"Mr. Student!" she began, and suddenly, waving her hand, she turned
abruptly towards the door and went out. I remained with a very
unpleasant feeling in my mind. I listened. Her door was flung
violently to--plainly the poor wench was very angry... I thought it
over, and resolved to go to her, and, inviting her to come in here,
write everything she wanted.

I entered her apartment. I looked round. She was sitting at the table,
leaning on her elbows, with her head in her hands.

"Listen to me," I said.

Now, whenever I come to this point in my story, I always feel horribly
awkward and idiotic. Well, well!

"Listen to me," I said.

She leaped from her seat, came towards me with flashing eyes, and
laying her hands on my shoulders, began to whisper, or rather to hum
in her peculiar bass voice:

"Look you, now! It's like this. There's no Boles at all, and there's
no Teresa either. But what's that to you? Is it a hard thing for you
to draw your pen over paper? Eh? Ah, and _you_, too! Still such a
little fair-haired boy! There's nobody at all, neither Boles, nor
Teresa, only me. There you have it, and much good may it do you!"

"Pardon me!" said I, altogether flabbergasted by such a reception,
"what is it all about? There's no Boles, you say?"

"No. So it is."

"And no Teres