her. Such honesty; such disinterestedness.'

'Has she cashed that bill yet?' inquired Shubin.

'Such disinterestedness,' repeated Nikolai Artemyevitch; 'it's
astonishing. They tell me there are a million other women in the
world, but I say, show me the million; show me the million, I say;
_ces femmes, qu'on me les montre_! And she doesn't write--that's
what's killing me!'

'You're eloquent as Pythagoras,' remarked Shubin; 'but do you know
what I would advise you?'

'What?'

'When Augustina Christianovna comes back--you take my meaning?'

'Yes, yes; well, what?'

'When you see her again--you follow the line of my thought?'

'Yes, yes, to be sure.'

'Try beating her; see what that would do.'

Nikolai Artemyevitch turned away exasperated.

'I thought he was really going to give me some practical advice. But
what can one expect from him! An artist, a man of no principles----'