"Bah! After a while it will all blow over. And it's not the first time,
either!" Thus he sought to soothe his conscience, but an inward voice
refused to accept such consolation.
Volochine entered gingerly, his boots creaking loudly, and his
discoloured teeth revealed by a condescending smile. The room was
instantly filled with an odour of musk and of tobacco, quite
overpowering the fresh scents of the garden.
"Ah! how do you do, Pavel Lvovitsch!" cried Sarudine as he hastily
rose.
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 ..."