'Yes; and of French novels, and of feminine frills and fal-lals,'
Elena went on.

'Fal-lals, too, of course,' rejoined Shubin, 'if they're pretty.'

'Of course. But suppose we don't want to talk of frills? You are
always boasting of being a free artist; why do you encroach on the
freedom of others? And allow me to inquire, if that's your bent of
mind, why do you attack Zoya? With her it would be peculiarly
suitable to talk of frills and roses?'

Shubin suddenly fired up, and rose from the garden seat. 'So that's
it?' he began in a nervous voice. 'I understand your hint; you
want to send me away to her, Elena Nikolaevna. In other words, I'm
not wanted here.'

'I never thought of sending you away from here.'

'Do you mean to say,' Shubin continued passionately, 'that I am not
worthy of other society, that I am her equal; that I am as vain, and
silly and petty as that mawkish German girl? Is that it?'

Elena frowned. 'You did not always speak like that of her, Pavel
Yakovlitch,' she remarked.

'Ah! reproaches! reproaches now!' cried Shubin. 'Well, then I
don't deny there was a moment--one moment precisely, when those fresh,
vulgar cheeks of hers . . . But if I wanted to repay you with
reproaches and remind you . . . Good-bye,' he added suddenly, 'I feel
I shall say something silly.'