in staring at her--not mockingly but attentively. Bersenyev, too, was
thrown into perplexity during the evening: he had expected to see
Elena more gloomy. Happily for her, an argument sprang up about art
between him and Shubin; she moved apart and heard their voices as it
were through a dream. By degrees, not only they, but the whole room,
everything surrounding her, seemed like a dream--everything: the
samovar on the table, and Uvar Ivanovitch's short waistcoat, and
Zoya's polished finger-nails, and the portrait in oils of the Grand
Duke Constantine Pavlovitch on the wall; everything retreated,
everything was wrapped in mist, everything ceased to exist. Only she
felt sorry for them all. 'What are they living for?' she thought.

'Are you sleepy, Lenotchka?' her mother asked her. She did not hear
the question.

'A half untrue insinuation, do you say?' These words, sharply
uttered by Shubin, suddenly awakened Elena's attention. 'Why,' he
continued, 'the whole sting lies in that. A true insinuation makes one
wretched--that's unchristian--and to an untrue insinuation a man is
indifferent--that's stupid, but at a half true one he feels vexed and
impatient. For instance, if I say that Elena Nikolaevna is in love
with one of us, what sort of insinuation would that be, eh?'

'Ah, Monsieur Paul,' said Elena, 'I should like to show myself vexed,
but really I can't. I am so tired.'

'Why don't you go to bed?' observed Anna Vassilyevna, who was always
drowsy in the evening herself, and consequently always eager to send
the others to bed. 'Say good-night to me, and go in God's name;
Andrei Petrovitch will excuse you.'