conduct; and in the second place, did not she, such a proud person, appoint a meeting with a man who might show her scorn ... and appoint it in a public place, into the bargain ... on the boulevard!”—­At this point there recurred to Aratoff’s mind the whole scene on the boulevard, and he asked himself:  “Had he really shown scorn for Clara?”—­“No,” he decided....  That was another feeling ... a feeling of perplexity ... of distrust, in short!—­“Unhappy Clara!” again rang through his brain.—­“Yes, she was unhappy,” he decided again ... that was the most fitting word.

“But if that is so, I was unjust.  She spoke truly when she said that I did not understand her.  ’Tis a pity!—­It may be that a very remarkable being has passed so close to me ... and I did not take advantage of the opportunity, but repulsed her....  Well, never mind!  My life is still before me.  I shall probably have other encounters of a different sort!

“But what prompted her to pick out me in particular?”—­He cast a glance at a mirror which he was passing at the moment.  “What is there peculiar about me?  And what sort of a beauty am I?—­My face is like everybody else’s face....  However, she was not a beauty either.

“She was not a beauty ... but what an expressive face she had!  Impassive ... but expressive!  I have never before seen such a face.—­And she has talent ... that is to say, she had talent, undoubted talent.  Wild, untrained, even coarse ... but undoubted.—­And in that case also I was unjust to her.”—­Aratoff mentally transported himself to the musical morning ... and noticed that he remembered with remarkable distinctness every word she had sung or recited, every intonation....  That would not have been the case had she been devoid of talent.

“And now all that is in the grave, where she has thrust herself....  But I have nothing to do with that....  I am not to blame!  It would even be absurd to think that I am to blame.”—­Again it flashed into Aratoff’s mind that even had she had “anything of that sort” about her, his conduct during the interview would indubitably have disenchanted her.  That was why she had broken into such harsh laughter at parting.—­And where was the proof that she had poisoned herself on account of an unhappy love?  It is only newspaper correspondents who attribute every such death to unhappy love!—­But life easily becomes repulsive to people with character, like Clara ... and tiresome.  Yes, tiresome.  Kupfer was right:  living simply bored her.

“In spite of her success, of her ovations?”—­Aratoff meditated.—­The psychological analysis to which he surrendered himself was even agreeable to him.  Unaccustomed as he had been, up to this time, to all contact with women, he did not suspect how significant for him was this tense examination of a woman’s soul.

“Consequently,” he pursued his meditations, “art did not satisfy her, did not fill the void of her life.  Genuine artists exist only for art, for the theatre....  Everything else pales before that which they regard as their vocation....  She was a dilettante!”