Volochine smiled, and chatted about various trifling matters. Yet he found it difficult to keep up such superficial conversation. “Woman” was the theme that he longed to approach, and it underlay all his stale jokes and stories of the strike at his St. Petersburg factory. As he lighted another cigar he took the opportunity of looking hard at Sarudine. Their eyes met, and they instantly understood each other. Volochine adjusted his _pince-nez_ and smiled a smile that found its reflection In Sarudine’s face which suddenly acquired a look of lust. “I don’t expect you waste much of your time, do you?” said Volochine, with a knowing wink. “Oh! as for that, well, what else is there to do?” replied Sarudine, shrugging his shoulders slightly. Then they both laughed, and for a while were silent. Volochine was eager to have details of the other’s conquests. A little vein just below his left knee throbbed convulsively. Sarudine, however, was not thinking of such piquant details, but of the distressing events of the last few days. He turned towards the garden and drummed with his fingers on the window-sill. Yet Volochine was evidently waiting, and Sarudine felt that he must keep to the desired theme of conversation. “Of course, I know,” he began, with an exaggerated air of nonchalance, “I know that to you men-about-town these country wenches are extraordinarily attractive. But you’re wrong. They’re fresh and plump, it’s true, but they’ve no _chic_; they don’t know how to make love artistically.” In a moment Volochine was all animation. His eyes sparkled, and there was a change in the tone of his voice. “No, that’s quite true. But after a while all that sort of thing is apt to become boring. Our Petersburg women are not well made. You know what I mean? They’re just bundles of nerves; they’ve no limbs on them. Now here …” “Yes, you’re right,” said Sarudine, growing interested in his turn, as he twirled his moustache complacently. “Take off her corset, and the smartest Petersburg woman becomes—Oh! by the way, have you heard the latest?” said Volochine, interrupting himself. “No, I dare say not,” replied Sarudine, leaning forward, eagerly. “Well,” said the other, “it’s an awfully good story about a Parisian _cocotte_.” Then, with much wealth of detail, Volochine proceeded to relate a spicy anecdote that pleased his companion vastly. “Yes,” said Volochine in conclusion, as he rolled his eyes, “shape’s everything in a woman. If she hasn’t got that, well, for me she simply doesn’t exist.” Sarudine thought of Lida’s beauty, and he shrank from discussing it with Volochine. However, after a pause, he observed with much affectation: “Every one to his taste. What I like most in a woman is the back; that sinuous line, don’t you know….” “Yes,” drawled Volochine nervously. “Some women, especially very young ones, have got …”