'But did I?' began Elena.

'Did you not?'

Elena flushed slightly and held out her hand to Shubin. He pressed it
warmly.

'Here you seem to have convicted me of a bad feeling,' said Elena,
'but your suspicion is unjust. I was not even thinking of Avoiding you.'

'Granted, granted. But you must acknowledge that at that minute you
had a thousand ideas in your head of which you would not confide one
to me. Eh? I've spoken the truth, I'm quite sure?'

'Perhaps so.'

'And why is it? why?'

'My ideas are not clear to myself,' said Elena.

'Then it's just the time for confiding them to some one else,' put in
Shubin. 'But I will tell you what it really is. You have a bad
opinion of me.'

'I?'

'Yes you; you imagine that everything in me is half-humbug because I
am an artist, that I am incapable not only of doing anything--in that
you are very likely right--but even of any genuine deep feeling; you
think that I am not capable even of weeping sincerely, that I'm a