"So much the worse--but this is no argument," answered the girl; and her words fell on Ilya like a cold douche. He supported himself with both hands on the counter, and bent forward as though he were going to spring over, and gazed at her for some seconds in silence, cut to the heart, and astonished at her quietness. Her glance and her unmoved countenance, full of profound conviction, restrained his anger and confused him; he felt something fearless, impregnable in her, and the words he needed to refute her died on his tongue. "Well? What then?" she asked with a cool challenge, then laughed, and said triumphantly: "It's impossible to disprove it, because I spoke the truth." "Impossible?" repeated Ilya in a dull voice. "Yes, impossible. What can you say against it?" She laughed again condescendingly. "Good-bye!" and she went out, her head even higher than usual. "That's all nonsense! It isn't true, excuse me"--Lunev shouted after her. But she did not turn round. Ilya sat down on the stool. Gavrik stood at the door and looked at him, evidently well pleased with his sister's behaviour; his face had an important triumphant expression. "What are you staring at?" cried Lunev crossly, feeling annoyed by the boy's expression. "Nothing." "Oh! oh!" cried Lunev threateningly; then after a short pause he added: "You can go, take a holiday." He felt the necessity for solitude, but even when alone he could not collect his thoughts. He could not grasp the sense of the girl's words; they pained him before everything. Leaning his elbows on the counter, he thought in irritation: "Why did she abuse me? What have I done to her? And she's kind, too. Comes here, condemns me, and goes away--without any justice; without even finding out anything. She is very clever; but wait till you come back here--I'll answer you." But even while he threatened his mind was searching for the fault wherefore she had so attacked him. He remembered what Pavel had said of her intelligence and simplicity. "Pashka--no fear--she wouldn't hurt him." Raising his head he saw his reflection in the mirror, and as he looked he seemed to question his image. The black moustache moved on his lip, the big eyes looked weary, and a red flush burned on his cheek-bones; but yet, in spite of its look of annoyance over his defeat, the face was handsome, with a coarse, peasant's beauty; certainly more handsome than Pavel's yellow, bony countenance. "Does she really like Pashka better than me?" he thought, and at once answered his thought: "What good's my face? I'm no man for her. She'll marry some doctor or advocate, or official. Whatever interest could she take in us?" He smiled bitterly, and began to question again: "But why has she asked Pashka to go and see her? Why does she despise me? A tradesman--is he a thief? He doesn't work--think. I live on the work of others? And who is it stands here stiff and tired all day long, and never gets away?"