She grew cold from agitation and confusion as she recalled that she had promised to speak that evening. “Yes, to-night,” said Stchemilov; “I hope you haven’t changed your mind. You will speak, eh?” “I thought it was to be to-morrow,” she replied. “Just wait a moment. I’ll get a small bundle of clothes. I will change at your place.” She quickly and gaily tripped up the bank. Stchemilov whistled as he sat waiting in the boat. Elisaveta soon reappeared, and deftly jumped into the boat. It was necessary to row past the whole length of the town. No one on either bank recognized Elisaveta in her boy’s attire. Stchemilov’s house, a cabin in the middle of a vegetable garden, stood on a steep bank of the river, just along the edge of the town. No one had yet arrived at the house. Elisaveta picked up a periodical which lay on the table and asked: “Tell me, comrade, how do you like these verses?” Stchemilov looked at the periodical, open at a page which contained Trirodov’s verses. He smiled and said: “What shall I say? His revolutionary poems are not bad. Nowadays, however, everybody writes them. As for his other works, they are not written about us. Noblemen’s delights are not for us.” “It’s a long time since I’ve been here,” said Elisaveta. “What a mess you’ve got here.” “A house without a mistress,” answered Stchemilov, rather confused. Elisaveta began to put things in order and to clean and to scrub. She moved about with agile grace. Stchemilov admired her graceful limbs; it was fascinating to watch the play of the muscles under the brown skin of her calves. He exclaimed in a clear, almost ecstatic voice: “How graceful you are, Elisaveta! Like a statue! I never saw such arms and legs.” “I feel embarrassed, comrade Aleksei. You praise me to my eyes as if I were a charming piece of property.” Stchemilov suddenly flushed with embarrassment; his habitual self-assurance appeared to have left him unexpectedly. He breathed heavily and stammered out in confusion: “Comrade Elisaveta, you are a fine person. Don’t be offended at my words. I love you. I know that for you social inequality is a silly thing; and you know that for me your money is of no account. Now if I am not repugnant to you....” Elisaveta stood before him calm and yet sad, and as she dried her hands, grown red from the cold water, with a towel, she said quietly: “Forgive me, comrade Aleksei--you are right about my views, but I love another.” She herself did not know how these words came to be spoken. Love another! So unexpectedly the secret of her heart revealed itself in superficial words. But did he love her, that other one? They were both flustered. Stchemilov strove heroically to control his agitation. As he looked with his confused eyes into her clear blue ones he said: “Forgive me, Elisaveta, and forget what I have said. I didn’t guess right that time and did the wrong thing. I didn’t think that you’d love him. Don’t be angry at me and don’t despise me.”