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 …”