where are you off to?' he called; 'would you like me to present you to
Clara?' 'No, thanks,' Aratov returned hurriedly, and he went homewards
almost at a run.


V

He was agitated by strange sensations, incomprehensible to himself. In
reality, Clara's recitation, too, had not been quite to his taste ...
though he could not quite tell why. It disturbed him, this recitation;
it struck him as crude and inharmonious.... It was as though it broke
something within him, forced itself with a certain violence upon him. And
those fixed, insistent, almost importunate looks--what were they for? what
did they mean?

Aratov's modesty did not for one instant admit of the idea that he might
have made an impression on this strange girl, that he might have inspired
in her a sentiment akin to love, to passion!... And indeed, he himself had
formed a totally different conception of the still unknown woman, the girl
to whom he was to give himself wholly, who would love him, be his bride,
his wife.... He seldom dwelt on this dream--in spirit as in body he was
virginal; but the pure image that arose at such times in his fancy was
inspired by a very different figure, the figure of his dead mother, whom he
scarcely remembered, but whose portrait he treasured as a sacred relic. The
portrait was a water-colour, painted rather unskilfully by a lady who had
been a neighbour of hers; but the likeness, as every one declared, was a
striking one. Just such a tender profile, just such kind, clear eyes and
silken hair, just such a smile and pure expression, was the woman, the
girl, to have, for whom as yet he scarcely dared to hope....