“Elisaveta! Why do you mention Elisaveta?”
Trirodov looked steadily at Piotr. He asked rather slowly—in a strangely sounding voice:
“You are not afraid?”
“What is there to be afraid of?” replied Piotr morosely. “I am not at all a tragic person. My path is clear to me, and I know who guides me.”
“You don’t know that,” said Trirodov. “Besides, Elena is lovely. He who fears to take the grand and the terrible, he who loves tender melodies, for him there is Elena.”
Piotr was silent. Some sort of new—perhaps alien—thoughts swarmed in his head. He listened to them, and suddenly said:
“You haven’t visited us for a long time, and you are very much liked in our house. You would be welcome. You may come when you like, and you may talk or be silent, as suits your mood.”
Trirodov smiled in response.
Piotr Matov returned home quite late in a dazed state of mind. Every one had already sat down to supper. Elisaveta glanced at him curiously—as if she expected another person there instead of him.
“I’ve come late,” said Piotr confusedly. “I don’t know how I managed to wander off so far.”