‘And the grief of my poor, lonely mother?’ she asked herself, and was bewildered, and could find no answer to her question. Elena did not know that every man’s happiness is built on the unhappiness of another, that even his advantage, his comfort, like a statue needs a pedestal, the disadvantage, the discomfort of others. ‘Renditch!’ muttered Insarov in his sleep. Elena went up to him on tiptoe, bent over him, and wiped the perspiration from his face. He tossed a little on his pillow, and was still again. She went back again to the window, and again her thoughts took possession of her. She began to argue with herself, to assure herself that there was no reason to be afraid. She even began to feel ashamed of her weakness. ‘Is there any danger? isn’t he better?’ she murmured. ‘Why, if we had not been at the theatre to-day, all this would never have entered my head.’ At that instant she saw high above the water a white sea-gull; some fisherman had scared it, it seemed, for it flew noiselessly with uncertain course, as though seeking a spot where it could alight. ‘Come, if it flies here,’ thought Elena, ‘it will be a good omen.’ ... The sea-gull flew round in a circle, folded its wings, and, as though it had been shot, dropped with a plaintive cry in the distance behind a dark ship. Elena shuddered; then she was ashamed of having shuddered, and, without undressing, she lay down on the bed beside Insarov, who was breathing quickly and heavily. XXXIV Insarov waked late with a dull pain in his head, and a feeling, as he expressed it, of disgusting weakness all over. He got up however. ‘Renditch has not come?’ was his first question. ‘Not yet,’ answered Elena, and she handed him the latest number of the _Osservatore Triestino_, in which there was much upon the war, the Slav Provinces, and the Principalities. Insarov began reading it; she busied herself in getting some coffee ready for him. Some one knocked at the door. ‘Renditch,’ both thought at once, but a voice said in Russian, ‘May I come in?’ Elena and Insarov looked at each other in astonishment; and without waiting for an answer, an elegantly dressed young man entered the room, with a small sharp-featured face, and bright little eyes. He was beaming all over, as though he had just won a fortune or heard a most delightful piece of news. Insarov got up from his seat. ‘You don’t recognise me,’ began the stranger, going up to him with an easy air, and bowing politely to Elena, ‘Lupoyarov, do you remember, we met at Moscow at the E----’s.’ ‘Yes, at the E----’s,’ replied Insarov.