lked on further
into the depths of the garden. Shubin went after her.

'I beg you not to look at me,' he began, 'and then I address you;
flagrant contradiction. But what of that? it's not the first time I've
contradicted myself. I have just recollected that I have never begged
your pardon as I ought for my stupid behaviour yesterday. You are not
angry with me, Elena Nikolaevna, are you?'

She stood still and did not answer him at once--not because she was
angry, but because her thoughts were far away.

'No,' she said at last, 'I am not in the least angry.' Shubin bit his
lip.

'What an absorbed... and what an indifferent face!' he muttered. 'Elena
Nikolaevna,' he continued, raising his voice, 'allow me to tell you a
little anecdote. I had a friend, and this friend also had a friend, who
at first conducted himself as befits a gentleman but afterwards took
to drink. So one day early in the morning, my friend meets him in the
street (and by that time, note, the acquaintance has been completely
dropped) meets him and sees he is drunk. My friend went and turned his
back on him. But he ran up and said, "I would not be angry," says he,
"if you refused to recognise me, but why should you turn your back
on me? Perhaps I have been brought to this through grief. Peace to my
ashes!"'

Shubin paused.

'And is that all?' inquired Elena.

'Yes that's all.'

'I don't understand you. What are you hinting at? You told me just now
not to look your way.'

'Yes, and now I have told you that it's too bad to turn your back on
me.'

'But did I?' began Elena.

'Did you not?'

Elena flushed slightly and held out her hand to Shubin. He pressed it
warmly.

'Here you seem to have convicted me of a bad feeling,' said Elena, 'but
your suspicion is unjust. I was not even thinking of Avoiding you.'

'Granted, granted. But you must acknowledge that at that minute you had
a thousand ideas in your head of which you would not confide one to me.
Eh? I've spoken the truth, I'm quite sure?'

'Perhaps so.'

'And why is it? why?'

'My ideas are not clear to myself,' said Elena.

'Then it's just the time for confiding them to some one else,' put in
Shubin. 'But I will tell you what it really is. You have a bad opinion
of me.'

'I?'

'Yes you; you imagine that everything in me is half-humbug because I am
an artist, that I am incapable not only of doing anything--in that you
are very likely right--but even of any genuine deep feeling;