a came into his head that in the course of the summer he might
grow fond of this little, weak, talkative creature, might be carried
away and fall in love; in their position it was so possible and
natural! This thought touched and amused him; he bent down to her
sweet, preoccupied face and hummed softly:

"'Onyegin, I won't conceal it;
I madly love Tatiana. . . .'"

By the time they reached the house, Yegor Semyonitch had got up.
Kovrin did not feel sleepy; he talked to the old man and went to
the garden with him. Yegor Semyonitch was a tall, broad-shouldered,
corpulent man, and he suffered from asthma, yet he walked so fast
that it was hard work to hurry after him. He had an extremely
preoccupied air; he was always hurrying somewhere, with an expression
that suggested that if he were one minute late all would be ruined!

"Here is a business, brother . . ." he began, standing still to
take breath. "On the surface of the ground, as you see, is frost;
but if you raise the thermometer on a stick fourteen feet above the
ground, there it is warm. . . . Why is that?"

"I really don't know," said Kovrin, and he laughed.

"H'm! . . . One can't know everything, of course. . . . However
large the intellect may be, you can't find room for everything in
it. I suppose you still go in chiefly for philosophy?"

"Yes, I lecture in psychology; I am working at philosophy in general."

"And it does not bore you?"

"On the contrary, it's all I live for."

"Well, God bless you! . . ." said Yegor Semyonitch, meditatively
stroking his grey whiskers. "God bless you! . . . I am delighted
about you . . . delighted, my boy. . . ."

But suddenly he listened, and, with a terrible face, ran off and
quickly disappeared behind the trees in a cloud of smoke.

"Who tied this horse to an apple-tree?" Kovrin heard his despairing,
heart-rending cry. "Who is the low scoundrel who has dared to tie
this horse to an apple-tree? My God, my God! They have ruined
everything; they have spoilt everything; they have done everything
filthy, horrible, and abominable. The orchard's done for, the
orchard's ruined. My God!"

When he came back to Kovrin, his face looked exhausted and mortified.

"What is one to do with these accursed people?" he said in a tearful
voice, flinging up his hands. "Styopka was carting dung at night,
and tied the horse to an apple-tree! He twisted the reins round it,
the rascal, as tightly as he could