"My one-time mistress," Kalinin spoke unwillingly.
"And he, the clerk—was he in love with her?"
"Oh dear no!"
Evidently Kalinin had no particular wish to discuss the subject, for he hugged himself together, buried his face in his hands, and muttered:
"I should like to kindle a fire, were it not that everything in the place is too damp for the purpose."
The wind shook the trees, and whistled despondently, while the fine, persistent rain still whipped the earth.
"I but humble am, and poor, Nor fated to be otherwise,"
sang Kalinin softly as, flinging up his head with an unexpected movement, he added meaningly:
"Yes, it is a mournful song, a song which could move to tears. Only to two persons has it ever been known; to my friend the clerk and to myself. Yes, and to HER, though I need hardly add that at once she forgot it."
And Kalinin's eyes flashed into a smile as he added: