but of Bulgaria in general he talked readily with any one. He talked
at length of the Turks, of their oppression, of the sorrows and
disasters of his countrymen, and of their hopes: concentrated
meditation on a single ruling passion could be heard in every word he
uttered.

'Ah, well, there's no mistake about it,' Bersenyev was reflecting
meanwhile, 'that Turkish aga, I venture to think, has been punished
for his father's and mother's death.'

Insarov had not had time to say all he wanted to say, when the door
opened and Shubin made his appearance.

He came into the room with an almost exaggerated air of ease and
good-humour; Bersenyev, who knew him well, could see at once that
something had been jarring on him.

'I will introduce myself without ceremony,' he began with a bright and
open expression on his face. 'My name is Shubin; I'm a friend of
this young man here' (he indicated Bersenyev). 'You are Mr. Insarov,
of course, aren't you?'

'I am Insarov.'

'Then give me your hand and let us be friends. I don't know if
Bersenyev has talked to you about me, but he has told me a great deal
about you. You are staying here? Capital! Don't be offended at my
staring at you so. I'm a sculptor by trade, and I foresee I shall in
a little time be begging your permission to model your head.'