constantly at her side. Elena did not complain of that; she was
absolutely at a loss what to say to Zoya when she happened to be left
alone with her.

The dinner lasted rather a long time; Bersenyev talked with Elena about
university life, and his own plans and hopes; Shubin listened without
speaking, ate with an exaggerated show of greediness, and now and then
threw comic glances of despair at Zoya, who responded always with the
same phlegmatic smile. After dinner, Elena with Bersenyev and Shubin
went into the garden; Zoya looked after them, and, with a slight shrug
of her shoulders, sat down to the piano. Anna Vassilyevna began: 'Why
don't you go for a walk, too?' but, without waiting for a reply, she
added: 'Play me something melancholy.'

'_La derniere pensee de Weber_?' suggested Zoya.

'Ah, yes, Weber,' replied Anna Vassilyevna. She sank into an easy chair,
and the tears started on to her eyelashes.

Meanwhile, Elena led the two friends to an arbour of acacias, with a
little wooden table in the middle, and seats round. Shubin looked round,
and, whispering 'Wait a minute!' he ran off, skipping and hopping to his
own room, brought back a piece of clay, and began modelling a bust of
Zoya, shaking his head and muttering and laughing to himself.

'At his old tricks again,' observed Elena, glancing at his work. She
turned to Bersenyev, with whom she was continuing the conversation begun
at dinner.

'My old tricks!' repeated Shubin. 'It's a subject that's simply
inexhaustible! To-day, particularly, she drove me out of all patience.'

'Why so?' inquired Elena. 'One would think you were speaking of some
spiteful, disagreeable old woman. She is a pretty young girl.'

'Of course,' Shubin broke in, 'she is pretty, very pretty; I am sure
that no one who meets her could fail to think: that's some one I should
like to--dance a polka with; I'm sure, too, that she knows that, and
is pleased.... Else, what's the meaning of those modest simpers, that
discreet air? There, you know what I mean,' he muttered between his
teeth. 'But now you're absorbed in something else.'

And breaking up the bust of Zoya, Shubin set hastily to modelling and
kneading the clay again with an air of vexation.

'So it is your wish to be a professor?' said Elena to Bersenyev.

'Yes,' he answered, squeezing his red hands between his knees. 'That's
my cherished dream. Of course I know very well how far I fall short
of being--to be worthy of such a