er a short pause. 'I am sorry. But
really it's a strange taste, upon my word, to discuss philosophy in
weather like this under these trees. Let us rather talk of nightingales
and roses, youthful eyes and smiles.'

'Yes; and of French novels, and of feminine frills and fal-lals,' Elena
went on.

'Fal-lals, too, of course,' rejoined Shubin, 'if they're pretty.'

'Of course. But suppose we don't want to talk of frills? You are always
boasting of being a free artist; why do you encroach on the freedom of
others? And allow me to inquire, if that's your bent of mind, why do you
attack Zoya? With her it would be peculiarly suitable to talk of frills
and roses?'

Shubin suddenly fired up, and rose from the garden seat. 'So that's it?'
he began in a nervous voice. 'I understand your hint; you want to send
me away to her, Elena Nikolaevna. In other words, I'm not wanted here.'

'I never thought of sending you away from here.'

'Do you mean to say,' Shubin continued passionately, 'that I am not
worthy of other society, that I am her equal; that I am as vain, and
silly and petty as that mawkish German girl? Is that it?'

Elena frowned. 'You did not always speak like that of her, Pavel
Yakovlitch,' she remarked.

'Ah! reproaches! reproaches now!' cried Shubin. 'Well, then I don't
deny there was a moment--one moment precisely, when those fresh, vulgar
cheeks of hers... But if I wanted to repay you with reproaches and
remind you... Good-bye,' he added suddenly, 'I feel I shall say
something silly.'

And with a blow on the clay moulded into the shape of a head, he ran out
of the arbour and went off to his room.

'What a baby,' said Elena, looking after him.

'He's an artist,' observed Bersenyev with a quiet smile. 'All artists
are like that. One must forgive them their caprices. That is their
privilege.'

'Yes,' replied Elena; 'but Pavel has not so far justified his claim to
that privilege in any way. What has he done so far? Give me your arm,
and let us go along the avenue. He was in our way. We were talking of
your father's works.'

Bersenyev took Elena's arm in his, and walked beside her through the
garden; but the conversation prematurely broken off was not renewed.
Bersenyev began again unfolding his views on the vocation of a
professor, and on his own future career. He walked slowly beside Elena,
moving awkwardly, awkwardly holding her arm, sometimes jostling his
shoulder against her, and not once looking at her;