country-house tone but the peculiar summer visitor tone. It was a
conversation diversified by plenty of subjects; but broken by short
rather wearisome pauses every three minutes. In one of these pauses
Anna Vassilyevna turned to Zoya. Shubin understood her silent hint,
and drew a long face, while Zoya sat down to the piano, and played and
sang all her pieces through. Uvar Ivanovitch showed himself for an
instant in the doorway, but he beat a retreat, convulsively twitching
his fingers. Then tea was served; and then the whole party went out
into the garden. ... It began to grow dark outside, and the guests
took leave.

Insarov had really made less impression on Elena than she had
expected, or, speaking more exactly, he had not made the impression
she had expected. She liked his directness and unconstraint, and she
liked his face; but the whole character of Insarov--with his calm
firmness and everyday simplicity--did not somehow accord with the
image formed in her brain by Bersenyev's account of him. Elena, though
she did not herself suspect it, had anticipated something more
fateful. 'But,' she reflected, 'he spoke very little to-day, and I am
myself to blame for it; I did not question him, we must have patience
till next time . . . and his eyes are expressive, honest eyes.' She
felt that she had no disposition to humble herself before him, but
rather to hold out her hand to him in friendly equality, and she was
puzzled; this was not how she had fancied men, like Insarov, 'heroes.'
This last word reminded her of Shubin, and she grew hot and angry, as
she lay in her bed.

'How did you like your new acquaintances?' Bersenyev inquired of
Insarov on their way home.