guests took leave.

Insarov had really made less impression on Elena than she had expected,
or, speaking more exactly, he had not made the impression she had
expected. She liked his directness and unconstraint, and she liked his
face; but the whole character of Insarov--with his calm firmness and
everyday simplicity--did not somehow accord with the image formed in her
brain by Bersenyev's account of him. Elena, though she did not
herself suspect it, had anticipated something more fateful. 'But,' she
reflected, 'he spoke very little to-day, and I am myself to blame for
it; I did not question him, we must have patience till next time...
and his eyes are expressive, honest eyes.' She felt that she had no
disposition to humble herself before him, but rather to hold out her
hand to him in friendly equality, and she was puzzled; this was not how
she had fancied men, like Insarov, 'heroes.' This last word reminded her
of Shubin, and she grew hot and angry, as she lay in her bed.

'How did you like your new acquaintances?' Bersenyev inquired of Insarov
on their way home.

'I liked them very much,' answered Insarov, 'especially the daughter.
She must be a nice girl. She is excitable, but in her it's a fine kind
of excitability.'

'You must go and see them a little oftener,' observed Bersenyev.

'Yes, I must,' said Insarov; and he said nothing more all the way home.
He at once shut himself up in his room, but his candle was burning long
after midnight.

Bersenyev had had time to read a page of Raumer, when a handful of fine
gravel came rattling on his window-pane. He could not help starting;
opening the window he saw Shubin as white as a sheet.

'What an irrepressible fellow you are, you night moth----' Bersenyev was
beginning.

'Sh--' Shubin cut him short; 'I have come to you in secret, as Max went
to Agatha I absolutely must say a few words to you alone.'

'Come into the room then.'

'No, that's not necessary,' replied Shubin, and he leaned his elbows
on the window-sill, 'it's better fun like this, more as if we were in
Spain. To begin with, I congratulate you, you're at a premium now. Your
belauded, exceptional man has quite missed fire. That I'll guarantee.
And to prove my impartiality, listen--here's the sum and substance of
Mr. Insarov. No talents, none, no poetry, any amount of capacity for
work, an immense memory, an intellect not deep nor varied, but sound
and quick, dry as dust, and force, and even the gift