"That is ridiculous!" Mintz replied coldly. "I very seldom imagine things. I want to say how very comfortable you seem here, because this is the very essence of comfort.... Look at me! I have painted pictures, sold them, painted more in order to sell those also--though I ceased painting long ago--and I lived in garrets because I must have light, and by myself because my wife will not come to such a place.... True, she is no longer with me, she deserted me long ago! Now I have only mistresses.... And I envy you because ... because it is very cold in garrets.... You understand me?" Mintz took off his pince-nez and his eyes looked bewildered and malignant: "In the name of all who had been tortured, all who have exchanged the springtime beauty of the parks for the erotic atmosphere of boudoirs; all who in the soft luxury of their homes forgot, and have now lost their claim on Russia--I say you are supremely comfortable, and we envy you! One may work here, one may even ... marry ... You have never painted, have you?" "No." Mintz was silent, then suddenly said in a low tone: "Look here! We have some brandy. Shall we have a drink?" "No, thank you. I want to sleep. Good night." "I want to talk!" Ivanov extinguished the candle, through custom finding his bread and milk in the dark, and hastily consumed it without sitting down. Mintz stood a moment by the door; then went out, slamming it behind him. Lydia Constantinovna now had her feet on the carpet and her head was bowed. Her eyes under their long lashes were blank and limpid, like lakes amid reeds. Her hands were clasped round her knees. "How was Sergius?" she enquired, without raising her head. "Boorish, he has gone to bed," answered Mintz. He was about to sit beside her, but she rose, arranged her hair mechanically, and smiled faintly and tenderly--not at Mintz, but into the empty space. "To bed? Well, it is time. Good rest!" she said softly. "Ah, how the perfume torments me. I feel giddy." She went to the other end of the room, Mintz following her, and halted on the threshold. In the stillness of the night the pattering rain could be heard distinctly. Lydia Constantinovna leaned against the white door, throwing back her head, and began to speak; avoiding Mintz's eyes, she endeavoured to express herself simply and clearly, but the words seemed dry as they fell from her lips: "I am very tired, Mintz, I am going to bed at once. You go too. Goodbye until tomorrow. We shall not meet again to-night. Do you understand, Mintz? It is my wish." Mintz stood still, his legs wide apart, his arms akimbo, his head hanging. Then with a sad, submissive smile he answered in an unexpectedly mild tone: "Very well, then, All right, I understand you. It is quite all right."