its plainness and artistic disorder, seemed to her unbearable. She felt a deep sense of offence, and said coldly —
“We must part for a time, otherwise we'll only quarrel seriously out of sheer tedium. I am tired of this. I am going to-day.”
“Going, how? On the steamer?”
“To-day is Thursday — there is a steamer at half-past nine.”
“Eh? Yes! . . . All right, go,” said Riabovsky softly, using a towel for a table-napkin. “It's tire-some here for you, and there's nothing to do. Only a great egoist would try to keep you. Go . . . we will meet after the twentieth.”
Olga Ivanovna, in good spirits, packed her clothes. Her cheeks burnt with pleasure. “Is it possible?” she asked herself. “Is it possible I shall soon paint in the drawing-room and sleep in a bedroom and dine off a tablecloth?” Her heart grew lighter, and her anger with the artist disappeared.
“I'll leave you the colours and brushes, Riabusha,” she said. “You'll bring everything. . . . And, mind, don't idle when I am gone; don't sulk, but work. You are my boy, Riabusha!”
At ten o'clock Riabovsky kissed her good-bye in the hut, to avoid — as she saw — kissing her on the landiog-stage in the presence of others. Soon afterwards the steamer arrived and took her away.
