XVII


On the very day on which Elena had written this last fatal line in her
diary, Insarov was sitting in Bersenyev's room, and Bersenyev was
standing before him with a look of perplexity on his face. Insarov had
just announced his intention of returning to Moscow the next day.

'Upon my word!' cried Bersenyev. 'Why, the finest part of the
summer is just beginning. What will you do in Moscow? What a sudden
decision! Or have you had news of some sort?'

'I have had no news,' replied Insarov; 'but on thinking things over, I
find I cannot stop here.'

'How can that be?'

'Andrei Petrovitch,' said Insarov, 'be so kind . . . don't
insist, please, I am very sorry myself to be leaving you, but it can't
be helped.'

Bersenyev looked at him intently.

'I know,' he said at last, 'there's no persuading you. And so, it's a
settled matter,