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Elisaveta came to Trirodov's house early in the day and remained there long. Trirodov showed her his colony. The quiet boy Grisha accompanied them, and looked with the blue reposefulness of his impassionate eyes into the blue flames of her rapturous ones, soothing the sultriness and passion of her agitation.
Trirodov's house stood about a verst and a half from the edge of the town, not at the end where the dirty and smoky factory buildings squatted, but quite at the other end, along the River Skorodyen, above the town of Skorodozh. This house and the estate attached to it occupied a considerable space, surrounded by a stone wall.
But his voice did not express any especial curiosity. Piotr replied with a sarcastic smile: "He said very little, but asked a great deal. He said that you knew him very well. In any case, I soon left." "Yes, I have known him a long time," was Trirodov's calm answer. "Perhaps not too well, yet I know him. I had some dealings with him." "I think he paid you a visit yesterday?"
Towards evening Elisaveta sat at Trirodov's. They read poems. Elisaveta loved poems even before she met Trirodov. Who else should love them if not girls? Now she read poems avidly. Whole hours passed by quickly in reading, and the poems gave birth in her to sweet and bitter emotions and passionate dreams.
She looked into the pale light of the mist-wrapt garden dreaming there under the moon. She recalled at this moment the details of the day's walk, and all that they had seen in Trirodov's house; she recalled it all so clearly, with almost the vividness of a hallucination. Then a drowsiness crept up, seized her. And Elisaveta could not recall later how she found herself in her bed.
Stchemilov's house, a cabin in the middle of a vegetable garden, stood on a steep bank of the river, just along the edge of the town. No one had yet arrived at the house. Elisaveta picked up a periodical which lay on the table and asked: "Tell me, comrade, how do you like these verses?" Stchemilov looked at the periodical, open at a page which contained Trirodov's verses.
Piotr put in a remark just then, in his usual parochial, self-confident manner: "If it were not for the wild changes in Peter's time, everything would have gone differently." There was a tinge of derision in Trirodov's smile. "A mistake, wasn't it?" he observed. "But if you are going to look for mistakes in Russian history, why not start earlier?"
He decided to go away; he made the decision again and again, but always remained there restless and yearning. As for Misha, he fell quite in love with Trirodov. He liked to remain with Elisaveta in order to talk about him. One evening Piotr came to Trirodov's house. He did not like to go there, for such antagonistic feelings wrestled in his soul! But common courtesy made the visit necessary.
"It is just such people that we want." That was how Ostrov came to be admitted into the union. He worked very zealously on its behalf. One of the chief functions of the Black Hundred was to lodge information against certain people. They informed the Governor and the head of the District Schools that Trirodov's wards had been at the funeral of the working men killed in the woods.
"Yes," said Trirodov, "it is quite true that it is impossible for you to know this. Continue your tale." "This same affair," said Ostrov, "is a very profitable article for us just now. Indeed, an article in the budget, as they say." "Why?" Trirodov's face did not reveal any astonishment, as Ostrov went on: "We have Potseluytchikov among us, a very lively individual."
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