and tears glistened in his eyes. Mashurina sat stiff and motionless, without leaning back, in her chair, and looked morosely away.
'Yes, yes,' began Paklin, 'those were times! Looking at you, I remember . . . many things, and many people, dead and living; my poll parrots too are dead . . . but you didn't know them, I fancy; and both on the same day, as I foretold. Nezhdanov . . . poor Nezhdanov! . . . you know, of course . . .?'
'Yes, I know,' said Mashurina, still looking away.
'And do you know about Ostrodumov, too?' Mashurina merely nodded. She wanted him to go on talking of Nezhdanov, but she could not bring herself to ask him about him. He understood her without that.
'I was told that in the letter he left he mentioned you—was that true?'
Mashurina could not answer at once.
'It is true,' she brought out at last.
'He was a marvellous fellow! Only, he got out of his right track! He was about as good a revolutionist as I was. Do you know what he really was? The idealist of realism! Do you understand me?'
Mashurina flung a rapid glance at Paklin. She did not understand, and indeed she did not care to take the trouble to understand him.
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