She grew cold from agitation and confusion as she recalled that she had promised to speak that evening.
“Yes, to-night,” said Stchemilov; “I hope you haven’t changed your mind. You will speak, eh?”
“I thought it was to be to-morrow,” she replied. “Just wait a moment. I’ll get a small bundle of clothes. I will change at your place.”
She quickly and gaily tripped up the bank. Stchemilov whistled as he sat waiting in the boat. Elisaveta soon reappeared, and deftly jumped into the boat.
It was necessary to row past the whole length of the town. No one on either bank recognized Elisaveta in her boy’s attire. Stchemilov’s house, a cabin in the middle of a vegetable garden, stood on a steep bank of the river, just along the edge of the town.
No one had yet arrived at the house. Elisaveta picked up a periodical which lay on the table and asked:
“Tell me, comrade, how do you like these verses?”
Stchemilov looked at the periodical, open at a page which contained Trirodov’s verses. He smiled and said:
“What shall I say? His revolutionary poems are not bad. Nowadays, however, everybody writes them. As for his other works, they are not written about us. Noblemen’s delights are not for us.”
“It’s a long time since I’ve been here,” said Elisaveta. “What a mess you’ve got here.”