ld some amusing story. Then
there was a ring and he had to go into the hall to welcome a guest;
Startsev took advantage of the momentary commotion, and whispered
to Ekaterina Ivanovna in great agitation:

"For God's sake, I entreat you, don't torment me; let us go into
the garden!"

She shrugged her shoulders, as though perplexed and not knowing
what he wanted of her, but she got up and went.

"You play the piano for three or four hours," he said, following
her; "then you sit with your mother, and there is no possibility
of speaking to you. Give me a quarter of an hour at least, I beseech
you."

Autumn was approaching, and it was quiet and melancholy in the old
garden; the dark leaves lay thick in the walks. It was already
beginning to get dark early.

"I haven't seen you for a whole week," Startsev went on, "and if
you only knew what suffering it is! Let us sit down. Listen to me."

They had a favourite place in the garden; a seat under an old
spreading maple. And now they sat down on this seat.

"What do you want?" said Ekaterina Ivanovna drily, in a matter-of-fact
tone.

"I have not seen you for a whole week; I have not heard you for so
long. I long passionately, I thirst for your voice. Speak."

She fascinated him by her freshness, the naive expression of her
eyes and cheeks. Even in the way her dress hung on her, he saw
something extraordinarily charming, touching in its simplicity and
naive grace; and at the same time, in spite of this naivete, she
seemed to him intelligent and developed beyond her years. He could
talk with her about literature, about art, about anything he liked;
could complain to her of life, of people, though it sometimes
happened in the middle of serious conversation she would laugh
inappropriately or run away into the house. Like almost all girls
of her neighbourhood, she had read a great deal (as a rule, people
read very little in S----, and at the lending library they said if
it were not for the girls and the young Jews, they might as well
shut up the library). This afforded Startsev infinite delight; he
used to ask her eagerly every time what she had been reading the
last few days, and listened enthralled while she told him.

"What have you been reading this week since I saw you last?" he
asked now. "Do please tell me."

"I have been reading Pisemsky."

"What exactly?"

"'A Thousand Souls,'" answered Kitten. "And what a funny name
Pisemsky had--Alexey Feofilaktitch!

"