s superintendent. To superintend the coal mines."

"I don't understand!" she shrugged her shoulders. "You are going
to the mines. But you know, it's the bare steppe, a desert, so
dreary that you couldn't exist a day there! It's horrible coal, no
one will buy it, and my uncle's a maniac, a despot, a bankrupt
. . . . You won't get your salary!"

"No matter," said Liharev, unconcernedly, "I am thankful even for
coal mines."

She shrugged her shoulders, and walked about the room in agitation.

"I don't understand, I don't understand," she said, moving her
fingers before her face. "It's impossible, and . . . and irrational!
You must understand that it's . . . it's worse than exile. It is a
living tomb! O Heavens!" she said hotly, going up to Liharev and
moving her fingers before his smiling face; her upper lip was
quivering, and her sharp face turned pale, "Come, picture it, the
bare steppe, solitude. There is no one to say a word to there, and
you . . . are enthusiastic over women! Coal mines . . . and women!"

Mlle. Ilovaisky was suddenly ashamed of her heat and, turning away
from Liharev, walked to the window.

"No, no, you can't go there," she said, moving her fingers rapidly
over the pane.

Not only in her heart, but even in her spine she felt that behind
her stood an infinitely unhappy man, lost and outcast, while he,
as though he were unaware of his unhappiness, as though he had not
shed tears in the night, was looking at her with a kindly smile.
Better he should go on weeping! She walked up and down the room
several times in agitation, then stopped short in a corner and sank
into thought. Liharev was saying something, but she did not hear
him. Turning her back on him she took out of her purse a money note,
stood for a long time crumpling it in her hand, and looking round
at Liharev, blushed and put it in her pocket.

The coachman's voice was heard through the door. With a stern,
concentrated face she began putting on her things in silence. Liharev
wrapped her up, chatting gaily, but every word he said lay on her
heart like a weight. It is not cheering to hear the unhappy or the
dying jest.

When the transformation of a live person into a shapeless bundle
had been completed, Mlle. Ilovaisky looked for the last time round
the "travellers' room," stood a moment in silence, and slowly walked
out. Liharev went to see her off. . . .

Outside, God alone knows why, the winter was raging still. Whole
clouds of b