Bersenyev took Elena’s arm in his, and walked beside her through the garden; but the conversation prematurely broken off was not renewed. Bersenyev began again unfolding his views on the vocation of a professor, and on his own future career. He walked slowly beside Elena, moving awkwardly, awkwardly holding her arm, sometimes jostling his shoulder against her, and not once looking at her; but his talk flowed more easily, even if not perfectly freely; he spoke simply and genuinely, and his eyes, as they strayed slowly over the trunks of the trees, the sand of the path and the grass, were bright with the quiet ardour of generous emotions, while in his soothed voice there was heard the delight of a man who feels that he is succeeding in expressing himself to one very dear to him. Elena listened to him very attentively, and turning half towards him, did not take her eyes off his face, which had grown a little paler--off his eyes, which were soft and affectionate, though they avoided meeting her eyes. Her soul expanded; and something tender, holy, and good seemed half sinking into her heart, half springing up within it. V Shubin did not leave his room before night. It was already quite dark; the moon--not yet at the full--stood high in the sky, the milky way shone white, and the stars spotted the heavens, when Bersenyev, after taking leave of Anna Vassilyevna, Elena, and Zoya, went up to his friend’s door. He found it locked. He knocked. ‘Who is there?’ sounded Shubin’s voice. ‘I,’ answered Bersenyev. ‘What do you want?’ ‘Let me in, Pavel; don’t be sulky; aren’t you ashamed of yourself?’ ‘I am not sulky; I’m asleep and dreaming about Zoya.’ ‘Do stop that, please; you’re not a baby. Let me in. I want to talk to you.’ ‘Haven’t you had talk enough with Elena?’ ‘Come, come; let me in!’ Shubin responded by a pretended snore. Bersenyev shrugged his shoulders and turned homewards.