And with a blow on the clay moulded into the shape of a head, he ran
out of the arbour and went off to his room.

'What a baby,' said Elena, looking after him.

'He's an artist,' observed Bersenyev with a quiet smile. 'All artists
are like that. One must forgive them their caprices. That is their
privilege.'

'Yes,' replied Elena; 'but Pavel has not so far justified his claim
to that privilege in any way. What has he done so far? Give me your
arm, and let us go along the avenue. He was in our way. We were
talking of your father's works.'

Bersenyev took Elena's arm in his, and walked beside her through the
garden; but the conversation prematurely broken off was not renewed.
Bersenyev began again unfolding his views on the vocation of a
professor, and on his own future career. He walked slowly beside
Elena, moving awkwardly, awkwardly holding her arm, sometimes jostling
his shoulder against her, and not once looking at her; but his talk
flowed more easily, even if not perfectly freely; he spoke simply and
genuinely, and his eyes, as they strayed slowly over the trunks of the
trees, the sand of the path and the grass, were bright with the quiet
ardour of generous emotions, while in his soothed voice there was
heard the delight of a man who feels that he is succeeding in
expressing himself to one very dear to him. Elena listened to him very
attentively, and turning half towards him, did not take her eyes off
his face, which had grown a little paler--off his eyes, which were
soft and affectionate, though they avoided meeting her eyes. Her soul