some spiteful, disagreeable old woman. She is a pretty young girl.'

'Of course,' Shubin broke in, 'she is pretty, very pretty; I am sure
that no one who meets her could fail to think: that's some one I
should like to--dance a polka with; I'm sure, too, that she knows
that, and is pleased. . . . Else, what's the meaning of those modest
simpers, that discreet air? There, you know what I mean,' he muttered
between his teeth. 'But now you're absorbed in something else.'

And breaking up the bust of Zoya, Shubin set hastily to modelling and
kneading the clay again with an air of vexation.

'So it is your wish to be a professor?' said Elena to Bersenyev.

'Yes,' he answered, squeezing his red hands between his knees.
'That's my cherished dream. Of course I know very well how far I fall
short of being--to be worthy of such a high--I mean that I am too
little prepared, but I hope to get permission for a course of travel
abroad; I shall pass three or four years in that way, if necessary,
and then----'

He stopped, dropped his eyes, then quickly raising them again, he gave
an embarrassed smile and smoothed his hair. When Bersenyev was talking
to a woman, his words came out more slowly, and he lisped more than
ever.

'You want to be a professor of history?' inquired Elena.

'Yes, or of philosophy,' he added, in a lower voice--'if that is
possible.'