nversation would spring up, and there was no more thought of work
and at midnight the friends parted very well pleased with one
another.

But this did not last long. Arriving one day at Yartsev's, Laptev
found no one there but Polina, who was sitting at the piano practising
her exercises. She looked at him with a cold, almost hostile
expression, and asked without shaking hands:

"Tell me, please: how much longer is this going on?"

"This? What?" asked Laptev, not understanding.

"You come here every day and hinder Yartsev from working. Yartsev
is not a tradesman; he is a scientific man, and every moment of his
life is precious. You ought to understand and to have some little
delicacy!"

"If you think that I hinder him," said Laptev, mildly, disconcerted,
"I will give up my visits."

"Quite right, too. You had better go, or he may be home in a minute
and find you here."

The tone in which this was said, and the indifference in Polina's
eyes, completely disconcerted him. She had absolutely no sort of
feeling for him now, except the desire that he should go as soon
as possible--and what a contrast it was to her old love for him!
He went out without shaking hands with her, and he fancied she would
call out to him, bring him back, but he heard the scales again, and
as he slowly went down the stairs he realised that he had become a
stranger to her now.

Three days later Yartsev came to spend the evening with him.

"I have news," he said, laughing. "Polina Nikolaevna has moved into
my rooms altogether." He was a little confused, and went on in a
low voice: "Well, we are not in love with each other, of course,
but I suppose that . . . that doesn't matter. I am glad I can give
her a refuge and peace and quiet, and make it possible for her not
to work if she's ill. She fancies that her coming to live with me
will make things more orderly, and that under her influence I shall
become a great scientist. That's what she fancies. And let her fancy
it. In the South they have a saying: 'Fancy makes the fool a rich
man.' Ha, ha, ha!"

Laptev said nothing. Yartsev walked up and down the study, looking
at the pictures he had seen so many times before, and said with a
sigh:

"Yes, my dear fellow, I am three years older than you are, and it's
too late for me to think of real love, and in reality a woman like
Polina Nikolaevna is a godsend to me, and, of course, I shall get
on capitally with her till we're both old people; but