her mother lying unconscious; the parting had been terrible. Elena had
not seen Bersenyev for more than a week: he had been seldom of late at
the Stahovs'. She had not expected to meet him; and crying, 'You!
thank you!' she threw herself on his neck; Insarov, too, embraced him.
A painful silence followed. What could these three say to one another?
what were they feeling in their hearts? Shubin realised the necessity
of cutting short everything painful with light words.

'Our trio has come together again,' he began, 'for the last time. Let
us submit to the decrees of fate; speak of the past with kindness;
and in God's name go forward to the new life! In God's name, on our
distant way,' he began to hum, and stopped short. He felt suddenly
ashamed and awkward. It is a sin to sing where the dead are lying: and
at that instant, in that room, the past of which he had spoken was
dying, the past of the people met together in it. It was dying to be
born again in a new life--doubtless--still it was death.

'Come, Elena,' began Insarov, turning to his wife, 'I think everything
is done? Everything paid, and everything packed. There's nothing more
except to take the box down.' He called his landlord.

The tailor came into the room, together with his wife and daughter. He
listened, slightly reeling, to Insarov's instructions, dragged the box
up on to his shoulders, and ran quickly down the staircases, tramping
heavily with his boots.

'Now, after the Russian custom, we must sit down,' observed Insarov.

They all sat down; Bersenyev seated himself on the old sofa, Elena
sat next him; the landlady and her daughter squatted in the doorway.