Sanine

"Bah! After a while it will all blow over. And it's not the first time,

either!" Thus he sought to soothe his conscience, but an inward voice

refused to accept such consolation.

Volochine entered gingerly, his boots creaking loudly, and his

discoloured teeth revealed by a condescending smile. The room was

instantly filled with an odour of musk and of tobacco, quite

overpowering the fresh scents of the garden.

"Ah! how do you do, Pavel Lvovitsch!" cried Sarudine as he hastily

rose.

Volochine shook hands, sat down by the window and proceeded to light a

cigar. He looked so elegant and self-possessed, that Sarudine felt

somewhat envious, and endeavoured to assume an equally careless

demeanour; but ever since Lida had flung the word "brute" in his face,

he had felt ill at ease, as if every one had heard the insult and was

secretly mocking him.

Volochine smiled, and chatted about various trifling matters. Yet he

found it difficult to keep up such superficial conversation. "Woman"

was the theme that he longed to approach, and it underlay all his stale

jokes and stories of the strike at his St. Petersburg factory.

As he lighted another cigar he took the opportunity of looking hard at

Sarudine. Their eyes met, and they instantly understood each other.

Volochine adjusted his pince-nez and smiled a smile that found its

reflection In Sarudine's face which suddenly acquired a look of lust.

"I don't expect you waste much of your time, do you?" said Volochine,

with a knowing wink.

"Oh! as for that, well, what else is there to do?" replied Sarudine,

shrugging his shoulders slightly.

Then they both laughed, and for a while were silent. Volochine was

eager to have details of the other's conquests. A little vein just

below his left knee throbbed convulsively. Sarudine, however, was not

thinking of such piquant details, but of the distressing events of the

last few days. He turned towards the garden and drummed with his

fingers on the window-sill.

Yet Volochine was evidently waiting, and Sarudine felt that he must

keep to the desired theme of conversation.

"Of course, I know," he began, with an exaggerated air of nonchalance,

"I know that to you men-about-town these country wenches are

extraordinarily attractive. But you're wrong. They're fresh and plump,

it's true, but they've no chic; they don't know how to make love

artistically."

In a moment Volochine was all animation. His eyes sparkled, and there

was a change in the tone of his voice.

"No, that's quite true. But after a while all that sort of thing is apt

to become boring. Our Petersburg women are not well made. You know what

I mean? They're just bundles of nerves; they've no limbs on them. Now

here ..."