Insarov came close to her and fondly touched her waist. She turned
suddenly to him, smiled brightly at him and leant against his
shoulder.

'Those letters are from Bulgaria, Elena; my friends write to me, they
want me to come.'

'Now? To them?'

'Yes . . . now, while there is still time, while it is still possible
to come.'

All at once she flung both arms round his neck, 'You will take me
with you, yes?'

He pressed her to his heart. 'O my sweet girl, O my heroine, how you
said that! But isn't it wicked, isn't it mad for me, a homeless,
solitary man, to drag you with me . . . and out there too!'

She shut his mouth. . . . 'Sh--or I shall be angry, and never come to
see you again. Why isn't it all decided, all settled between us?
Am I not your wife? Can a wife be parted from her husband?'

'Wives don't go into war,' he said with a half-mournful smile.

'Oh yes, when they can't stay behind, and I cannot stay here?'

'Elena, my angel! . . but think, I have, perhaps, to leave Moscow in a
fortnight. I can't think of university lectures, or finishing my
work.'