“What does it all mean?” he said to himself as he rocked himself to and fro. “Why, it is sheer torture! Have I made myself ridiculous? At no one else would she dare to stare as she does at me. I suppose it is because I am quieter than the rest. However, I will make an agreement with her. I will tell her, in so many words, that her eyes are dragging my very soul out of my body.” Suddenly she appeared on the threshold of the balcony. He handed her a chair, and she took a seat beside him. “Are you so very _ennuyé?_” she inquired. “_Ennuyé_, yes--but not much so. I have pursuits of my own.” “Ah? Schtoltz tells me that you are engaged in drawing up a scheme of some sort?” “Yes. I want to live upon my estate, and am making a few preparations for doing so.” “And you are going abroad?” “Undoubtedly--as soon as ever Schtoltz is ready to accompany me.” “Shall you be very glad to go?” “Yes, very.” He looked at her. A smile was hovering on her face, and illuminating her eyes, and gradually spreading over her cheeks. Only her lips remained as pressed together as usual. He lacked the spirit to continue his lies calmly. “However, I--I am rather a lazy person,” he began. “But, but----” Suddenly he felt vexed to think that _she_ should have extracted from him a confession of his lethargy. “What is she to me?” he thought. “Am I _afraid_ of her?” “Lazy?” she exclaimed with a scarcely perceptible touch of archness. “What? A man be lazy? That passes my comprehension.” “Why should it?” was his inward comment. “It is all simple enough. I have taken to sitting at home more and more, and therefore Schtoltz thinks that I----” “But I expect you write a great deal?” she went on. “And have you read much?” Somehow her gaze seemed very intent. “No, I cannot say that I have.” The words burst from him in a sudden fear lest she should see fit: to put him through a course of literary examination. “What do you mean?” she inquired, laughing. Then he too laughed. “I thought that you were going to crossquestion me about some novel or another,” he explained. “But, you see, I never read such things.” “Then you thought wrong. I was only going to ask you about a few books of travel.” He glanced at her quickly. Her lips were still compressed, but the rest of her face was smiling. “I must be very careful with her,” he reflected. “What _do_ you read?” she asked with seeming curiosity. “It happens that I am particularly fond of books of travel,” he replied. “Travels in Africa, for instance?” There was quiet demureness in the tone. He reddened at the not wholly unreasonable conjecture that she was aware not only of _what_ he read but of _how_ he read. “And are you also musical?” she continued, in order to relieve him of his embarrassment. At this moment Schtoltz (who had now returned from abroad) appeared on the scene. “Ha, Ilya!” he cried. “I have told Olga Sergievna that you adore music, and that to-night she must sing something--‘Casta Diva,’ for example.”