'What's the matter with you?' inquired Elena anxiously.

'Nothing. ... I am still rather weak. I am not strong enough yet for
such happiness.'

'Then sit quietly. Don't dare to move, don't get excited,' she added,
threatening him with her finger. 'And why have you left off your
dressing-gown? It's too soon to begin to be a dandy! Sit down and I
will tell you stories. Listen and be quiet. To talk much is bad for
you after your illness.'

She began to talk to him about Shubin, about Kurnatovsky, and what she
had been doing for the last fortnight, of how war seemed, judging from
the newspapers, inevitable, and so directly he was perfectly well
again, he must, without losing a minute, make arrangements for them to
start. All this she told him sitting beside him, leaning on his
shoulder. . . .

He listened to her, listened, turning pale and red. Sometimes he tried
to stop her; suddenly he drew himself up.

'Elena,' he said to her in a strange, hard voice 'leave me, go away.'

'What?' she replied in bewilderment 'You feel ill?' she added
quickly.

'No . . . I'm all right . . . but, please, leave me now.'

'I don't understand you. You drive me away? . . What are you doing?'
she said suddenly; he had bent over from the sofa almost to the