‘Ah, well, there’s no mistake about it,’ Bersenyev was reflecting meanwhile, ‘that Turkish aga, I venture to think, has been punished for his father’s and mother’s death.’
Insarov had not had time to say all he wanted to say, when the door opened and Shubin made his appearance.
He came into the room with an almost exaggerated air of ease and good-humour; Bersenyev, who knew him well, could see at once that something had been jarring on him.
‘I will introduce myself without ceremony,’ he began with a bright and open expression on his face. ‘My name is Shubin; I’m a friend of this young man here’ (he indicated Bersenyev). ‘You are Mr. Insarov, of course, aren’t you?’
‘I am Insarov.’
‘Then give me your hand and let us be friends. I don’t know if Bersenyev has talked to you about me, but he has told me a great deal about you. You are staying here? Capital! Don’t be offended at my staring at you so. I’m a sculptor by trade, and I foresee I shall in a little time be begging your permission to model your head.’
‘My head’s at your service,’ said Insarov.
‘What shall we do to-day, eh?’ began Shubin, sitting down suddenly on a low chair, with his knees apart and his elbows propped on them. ‘Andrei Petrovitch, has your honour any kind of plan for to-day? It’s glorious weather; there’s a scent of hay and dried strawberries as if one were drinking strawberry-tea for a cold. We ought to get up some kind of a spree. Let us show the new inhabitant of Kuntsov all its numerous beauties.’ (Something has certainly upset him, Bersenyev kept thinking to himself.) ‘Well, why art thou silent, friend Horatio? Open your prophetic lips. Shall we go off on a spree, or not?’
‘I don’t know how Insarov feels,’ observed Bersenyev. ‘He is just getting to work, I fancy.’
Shubin turned round on his chair.