for her, and, whafs more, she feared to be late for the theatre. She said nothing.
Duimoff sat still for a few minutes, smiled guiltily, and left the room.
This was an evil day.
Duimoff's head ached badly; he ate no breakfast, and did not go to the hospital, but lay on the sofa in his study. At one o'clock Olga Ivanovna went to Riabovsky's, to show him her Nature morte, and ask why he had not come the day before. The Nature morte she herself did not take seriously; she had painted it only as an excuse to visit the artist.
She went to his apartment unannounced. As she took off her goloshes in the hall she heard hasty footsteps, and the rustle of a woman's dress; and as she hurried into the studio a brown skirt flashed for a moment before her and vanished behind a big picture, which together with its easel was hung with black calico. There was no doubt that a woman hid there. How often had Olga Ivanovna herself hidden behind that picture! Riabovsky, in confusion, stretched out both hands as if surprised at her visit, and said with a constrained smile —
“Ah, I am glad to see you. What is the news?”
Olga Ivanovua's eyes filled with tears. She was
