but his talk
flowed more easily, even if not perfectly freely; he spoke simply and
genuinely, and his eyes, as they strayed slowly over the trunks of the
trees, the sand of the path and the grass, were bright with the quiet
ardour of generous emotions, while in his soothed voice there was heard
the delight of a man who feels that he is succeeding in expressing
himself to one very dear to him. Elena listened to him very attentively,
and turning half towards him, did not take her eyes off his face,
which had grown a little paler--off his eyes, which were soft and
affectionate, though they avoided meeting her eyes. Her soul expanded;
and something tender, holy, and good seemed half sinking into her heart,
half springing up within it.

V

Shubin did not leave his room before night. It was already quite dark;
the moon--not yet at the full--stood high in the sky, the milky way
shone white, and the stars spotted the heavens, when Bersenyev, after
taking leave of Anna Vassilyevna, Elena, and Zoya, went up to his
friend's door. He found it locked. He knocked.

'Who is there?' sounded Shubin's voice.

'I,' answered Bersenyev.

'What do you want?'

'Let me in, Pavel; don't be sulky; aren't you ashamed of yourself?'

'I am not sulky; I'm asleep and dreaming about Zoya.'

'Do stop that, please; you're not a baby. Let me in. I want to talk to
you.'

'Haven't you had talk enough with Elena?'

'Come, come; let me in!' Shubin responded by a pretended snore.

Bersenyev shrugged his shoulders and turned homewards.

The night was warm and seemed strangely still, as though everything were
listening and expectant; and Bersenyev, enfolded in the still darkness,
stopped involuntarily; and he, too, listened expectant. On the tree-tops
near there was a faint stir, like the rustle of a woman's dress, awaking
in him a feeling half-sweet, half-painful, a feeling almost of fright.
He felt a tingling in his cheeks, his eyes were chill with momentary
tears; he would have liked to move quite noiselessly, to steal along in
secret. A cross gust of wind blew suddenly on him; he almost shuddered,
and his heart stood still; a drowsy beetle fell off a twig and dropped
with a thud on the path; Bersenyev uttered a subdued 'Ah!' and
again stopped. But he began to think of Elena, and all these passing
sensations vanished at once; there remained only the reviving sense of
the night freshness, of the walk by night; his whole soul was absorb