shouted and . . . said . . . a lot of horrible insulting things to
me. What for?"

"There, there," said Kovrin, smoothing her hair. "You've quarrelled
with each other, you've cried, and that's enough. You must not be
angry for long--that's wrong . . . all the more as he loves you
beyond everything."

"He has . . . has spoiled my whole life," Tanya went on, sobbing.
"I hear nothing but abuse and . . . insults. He thinks I am of no
use in the house. Well! He is right. I shall go away to-morrow; I
shall become a telegraph clerk. . . . I don't care. . . ."

"Come, come, come. . . . You mustn't cry, Tanya. You mustn't, dear
. . . . You are both hot-tempered and irritable, and you are both to
blame. Come along; I will reconcile you."

Kovrin talked affectionately and persuasively, while she went on
crying, twitching her shoulders and wringing her hands, as though
some terrible misfortune had really befallen her. He felt all the
sorrier for her because her grief was not a serious one, yet she
suffered extremely. What trivialities were enough to make this
little creature miserable for a whole day, perhaps for her whole
life! Comforting Tanya, Kovrin thought that, apart from this girl
and her father, he might hunt the world over and would not find
people who would love him as one of themselves, as one of their
kindred. If it had not been for those two he might very likely,
having lost his father and mother in early childhood, never to the
day of his death have known what was meant by genuine affection and
that naïve, uncritical love which is only lavished on very close