They left this bench, from which one could look into such a great distance and see nothing but calm and peace everywhere. They descended below to the very bank. Even at this close range the water was still and smooth, and the agitated words of the restless people did not cause the broad sheet to stir. Misha picked up thin, flat stones and threw them underhand into the distance so that, touching the water, they skipped repeatedly on the surface. He did this habitually whenever the wrangling distressed him. His hands trembled, the little stones ricochetted badly sometimes; this annoyed him, but he tried to hide his annoyance and to look cheerful. Elisaveta said: “Misha, let’s see who can throw the better. Let’s try for pennies.” They began to play. Misha was losing. At the turn of the river, from the direction of the town, a rowing-boat appeared. Piotr looked searchingly into the distance, and said in a vexed voice: “Mr. Stchemilov, our intelligent workman, the Social Democrat of the Russia Party, is again about to honour us.” Elisaveta smiled. She asked with gentle reproof: “Why do you dislike him so?” “No, you tell me,” exclaimed Piotr, “why this party calls itself the Russia Party, and not the Russian Party? Why this high tone?” Elisaveta answered with her usual calm: “It is called the Russia and not the Russian Party because it includes not only the Russian, but also the Lithuanian, the Armenian, the Jew, and men of other races who happen to be citizens of Russia. It seems to me this is quite comprehensible.” “No, I do not understand,” said Piotr obstinately. “I see in it only unnecessary pretence.” In the meantime the boat drew nearer. Two men were sitting in it. Aleksei Makarovitch Stchemilov, a young working man, a locksmith by trade, sat at the oars. He was thin and of medium height; there was a suggestion of irony in the shape of his lips. Elisaveta had known Stchemilov since the past autumn, when she became acquainted with other labouring men and party workmen. The boat touched the landing, and Stchemilov sprang out gracefully. Piotr remarked derisively as he bowed with exaggerated politeness: “My homage to the proletariat of all lands.” Stchemilov answered quietly: “My most humble respects to the gentleman student.” He exchanged greetings with all; then, turning with special deference towards Elisaveta, said: “I’ve rowed back your property. It was almost taken from me. Our suburbanites have their own conceptions of the divine rights of ownership.” Piotr boiled over with vexation--the very sight of this young blouse-wearer irritated him beyond bounds; he thought Stchemilov’s manners and speech arrogant. Piotr said sharply: “As far as I understand your notion of things, it is not rights that are holy, but brute force.” Stchemilov whistled and said: