e wanted to say, when the door
opened and Shubin made his appearance.

He came into the room with an almost exaggerated air of ease and
good-humour; Bersenyev, who knew him well, could see at once that
something had been jarring on him.

'I will introduce myself without ceremony,' he began with a bright and
open expression on his face. 'My name is Shubin; I'm a friend of this
young man here' (he indicated Bersenyev). 'You are Mr. Insarov, of
course, aren't you?'

'I am Insarov.'

'Then give me your hand and let us be friends. I don't know if Bersenyev
has talked to you about me, but he has told me a great deal about you.
You are staying here? Capital! Don't be offended at my staring at you
so. I'm a sculptor by trade, and I foresee I shall in a little time be
begging your permission to model your head.'

'My head's at your service,' said Insarov.

'What shall we do to-day, eh?' began Shubin, sitting down suddenly on a
low chair, with his knees apart and his elbows propped on them. 'Andrei
Petrovitch, has your honour any kind of plan for to-day? It's glorious
weather; there's a scent of hay and dried strawberries as if one were
drinking strawberry-tea for a cold. We ought to get up some kind of
a spree. Let us show the new inhabitant of Kuntsov all its numerous
beauties.' (Something has certainly upset him, Bersenyev kept thinking
to himself.) 'Well, why art thou silent, friend Horatio? Open your
prophetic lips. Shall we go off on a spree, or not?'

'I don't know how Insarov feels,' observed Bersenyev. 'He is just
getting to work, I fancy.'

Shubin turned round on his chair.

'You want to work?' he inquired, in a somewhat condescending voice.

'No,' answered Insarov; 'to-day I could give up to walking.'

'Ah!' commented Shubin. 'Well, that's delightful. Run along, my friend,
Andrei Petrovitch, put a hat on your learned head, and let us go where
our eyes lead us. Our eyes are young--they may lead us far. I know a
very repulsive little restaurant, where they will give us a very beastly
little dinner; but we shall be very jolly. Come along.'

Half an hour later they were all three walking along the bank of the
Moskva. Insarov had a rather queer cap with flaps, over which Shubin
fell into not very spontaneous raptures. Insarov walked without
haste, and looked about, breathing, talking, and smiling with the same
tranquillity; he was giving this day up to pleasure, and enjoying it
to the utmost. 'Just as well-be