his visitor with his sly, and also snuff-coloured
little eyes; he heard him to the end, and then demanded 'greater
definiteness in the statement of the facts of the case'; and observing
that Insarov was unwilling to launch into particulars (it was against
the grain that he had come to him at all) he confined himself to the
advice to provide himself above all things with 'the needful,' and asked
him to come to him again, 'when you have,' he added, sniffing at the
snuff in the open snuff-box, 'augmented your confidence and decreased
your diffidence' (he talked with a broad accent). 'A passport,' he
added, as though to himself, 'is a thing that can be arranged; you go
a journey, for instance; who's to tell whether you're Marya Bredihin
or Karolina Vogel-meier?' A feeling of nausea came over Insarov, but he
thanked the attorney, and promised to come to him again in a day or two.

The same evening he went to the Stahovs. Anna Vassilyevna met him
cordially, reproached him a little for having quite forgotten them,
and, finding him pale, inquired especially after his health. Nikolai
Artemyevitch did not say a single word to him; he only stared at him
with elaborately careless curiosity; Shubin treated him coldly; but
Elena astounded him. She was expecting him; she had put on for him the
very dress she wore on the day of their first interview in the chapel;
but she welcomed him so calmly, and was so polite and carelessly gay,
that no one looking at her could have believed that this girl's fate was
already decided, and that it was only the secret consciousness of happy
love that gave fire to her features, lightness and charm to all her
gestures. She poured out tea in Zoya's place, jested, chattered; she
knew Shubin would be watching her, that Insarov was incapable of wearing
a mask, and incapable of appearing indifferent, and she had prepared
herself beforehand. She was not mistaken; Shubin never took his eyes off
her, and Insarov was very silent and gloomy the whole evening. Elena was
so happy that she even felt an inclination to tease him.

'Oh, by the way,' she said to him suddenly, 'is your plan getting on at
all?'

Insarov was taken aback.

'What plan?' he said.

'Why, have you forgotten?' she rejoined, laughing in his face; he alone
could tell the meaning of that happy laugh: 'Your Bulgarian selections
for Russian readers?'

'_Quelle bourde_!' muttered Nikolai Artemyevitch between his teeth.

Zoya sat down to the p