"Oh!" said Olympiada, in an injured tone. "You won't go with me, because you're afraid of me; you think I should always have a hold on you, you think I should use what I know—you're wrong, my dear. I'll never drag you with me by force."
She spoke quietly, but her lips twitched as though she were in pain.
"What did you say?" asked Ilya, quite surprised.
"I won't compel you, don't be frightened; go where you will!"
"Wait a moment," said Ilya, as he sat down near her, and took her hand.
"I didn't understand what you said."
"Don't pretend!" she cried, and drew away her hand. "I know you're proud, and passionate; you can't forgive the old man; you hate my life—you think that it's all come about through me."
"You're talking foolishly," said Ilya, quietly. "I don't blame you in the very least, I know that for men like me there are no women who are pretty and fine and pure as well. Such women are dear, they are only for the rich, and we must love the soiled and those who are spat upon and abused."
"Then leave me, the spat upon and abused!" cried Olympiada, springing up from her chair. "Go away—go away!"
But suddenly tears shone in her eyes and she covered Ilya with a flood of burning words, like hot coals.