expressed in her even external tranquillity, and her parents were
often justified in shrugging their shoulders in astonishment, and
failing to understand her 'queer ways.'

On the day with which our story began, Elena did not leave the window
till later than usual. She thought much of Bersenyev, and of her
conversation with him. She liked him; she believed in the warmth of
his feelings, and the purity of his aims. He had never before talked
to her as on that evening. She recalled the expression of his timid
eyes, his smiles--and she smiled herself and fell to musing, but not
of him. She began to look out into the night from the open window.
For a long time she gazed at the dark, low-hanging sky; then she got
up, flung back her hair from her face with a shake of her head, and,
herself not knowing why, she stretched out to it--to that sky--her
bare chilled arms; then she dropped them, fell on her knees beside her
bed, pressed her face into the pillow, and, in spite of all her
efforts not to yield to the passion overwhelming her, she burst into
strange, uncomprehending, burning tears.




VII


The next day at twelve o'clock, Bersenyev set off in a return coach to
Moscow. He had to get some money from the post-office, to buy some
books, and he wanted to seize the opportunity to see Insarov and have
some conversation with him. The idea had occurred to Bersenyev, in the
course of his last conversation with Shubin, to invite Insarov to stay