re. The sketch seemed to her worthless, and she had painted
it only in order to have an additional reason for going to the artist.

She went in to him without ringing, and as she was taking off her
goloshes in the entry she heard a sound as of something running softly
in the studio, with a feminine rustle of skirts; and as she hastened
to peep in she caught a momentary glimpse of a bit of brown petticoat,
which vanished behind a big picture draped, together with the easel,
with black calico, to the floor. There could be no doubt that a woman
was hiding there. How often Olga Ivanovna herself had taken refuge
behind that picture!

Ryabovsky, evidently much embarrassed, held out both hands to her, as
though surprised at her arrival, and said with a forced smile:

"Aha! Very glad to see you! Anything nice to tell me?"

Olga Ivanovna's eyes filled with tears. She felt ashamed and bitter, and
would not for a million roubles have consented to speak in the presence
of the outsider, the rival, the deceitful woman who was standing now
behind the picture, and probably giggling malignantly.

"I have brought you a sketch," she said timidly in a thin voice, and her
lips quivered. "_Nature morte._"

"Ah--ah!... A sketch?"

The artist took the sketch in his hands, and as he examined it w alked,
as it were mechanically, into the other room.

Olga Ivanovna followed him humbly.

"_Nature morte_... first-rate sort," he muttered, falling into rhyme.
"Kurort... sport... port..."

From the studio came the sound of hurried footsteps and the rustle of a
skirt.

So she had gone. Olga Ivanovna wanted to scream aloud, to hit the artist
on the head with something heavy, but she could see nothing through her
tears, was crushed by her shame, and felt herself, not Olga Ivanovna,
not an artist, but a little insect.

"I am tired..." said the artist languidly, looking at the sketch and
tossing his head as though struggling with drowsiness. "It's very nice,
of course, but here a sketch today, a sketch last year, another sketch
in a month... I wonder you are not bored with them. If I were you I
should give up painting and work seriously at music or something. You're
not an artist, you know, but a musician. But you can't think how tired I
am! I'll tell them to bring us some tea, shall I?"

He went out of the room, and Olga Ivanovna heard him give some order to
his footman. To avoid farewells and explanations, and above all to avoid
bursting