As they went away, Yourii could hear at a distance Ivanoff’s gruff bass voice and Sanine’s careless, merry laugh. He walked once more along the boulevard. Girlish voices called to him through the dusk. Sina Karsavina and the school-mistress Dubova were sitting on a bench. It was now getting dark, and their figures were hardly discernible. They wore dark dresses, were without hats, and carried books in their hands. Yourii hastened to join them. “Where have you been?” he asked. “At the library,” replied Sina. Without speaking, her companion moved to make room for Yourii who would have preferred to sit next to Sina, but, being shy, he took a seat beside the ugly schoolteacher, Dubova. “Why do you look so utterly miserable?” asked Dubova, pursing up her thin, dry lips, as was her wont. “What makes you think that I am miserable? On the contrary I am in excellent spirits. Somewhat bored, perhaps.” “Ah! that’s because you’ve nothing to do,” said Dubova. “Have you so much to do, then?” “At any rate, I have not the time to weep.” “I am not weeping, am I?” “Well,” said Dubova, teasing him, “you’re in the sulks.” “My life,” replied Yourii, “has caused me to forget what laughing is.” This was said in such a bitter tone that there was a sudden silence. “A friend of mine told me that my life is most instructive,” said Yourii after a pause, though no one had ever made such a statement to him. “In what way?” asked Sina cautiously. “As an example of how not to live.” “Oh! do tell us all about it. Perhaps we might profit by the lesson,” said Dubova.