t it and say coldly that
the more unnecessary objects they had in the flat, the less airy
it would be. It sometimes happened that after putting on his dress
clothes to go out somewhere, and after saying good-bye to Zinaida
Fyodorovna, he would suddenly change his mind and remain at home
from sheer perversity. I used to think that he remained at home
then simply in order to feel injured.

"Why are you staying?" said Zinaida Fyodorovna, with a show of
vexation, though at the same time she was radiant with delight.
"Why do you? You are not accustomed to spending your evenings at
home, and I don't want you to alter your habits on my account. Do
go out as usual, if you don't want me to feel guilty."

"No one is blaming you," said Orlov.

With the air of a victim he stretched himself in his easy-chair in
the study, and shading his eyes with his hand, took up a book. But
soon the book dropped from his hand, he turned heavily in his chair,
and again screened his eyes as though from the sun. Now he felt
annoyed that he had not gone out.

"May I come in?" Zinaida Fyodorovna would say, coming irresolutely
into the study. "Are you reading? I felt dull by myself, and have
come just for a minute . . . to have a peep at you."

I remember one evening she went in like that, irresolutely and
inappropriately, and sank on the rug at Orlov's feet, and from her
soft, timid movements one could see that she did not understand his
mood and was afraid.

"You are always reading . . ." she said cajolingly, evidently wishing
to flatter him. "Do you know, _George_, what is one of the secrets
of your success? You are very clever and well-read. What book have
you there?"

Orlov answered. A silence followed for some minutes which seemed
to me very long. I was standing in the drawing-room, from which I
could watch them, and was afraid of coughing.

"There is something I wanted to tell you," said Zinaida Fyodorovna,
and she laughed; "shall I? Very likely you'll laugh and say that I
flatter myself. You know I want, I want horribly to believe that
you are staying at home to-night for my sake . . . that we might
spend the evening together. Yes? May I think so?"

"Do," he said, screening his eyes. "The really happy man is he who
thinks not only of what is, but of what is not."

"That was a long sentence which I did not quite understand. You
mean happy people live in their imagination. Yes, that's true. I
love to sit in your study in the evening