I see, too, that we have
been drinking because we feel lonely and dull--yes, even though we
have been joking and laughing boisterously; I see that there is now
the great joy and beauty of spring outside--so different from the
distorted images visible to warped minds and clouded eyes; I see,
moreover, that the Revolution has passed us by after throwing us
aside, even though the New Economic Policy may put on us our feet
again for a while, and that ... that ..." Mintz did not finish, but
turned round abruptly and strode away with an air of self-assertion,
into the remote end of the room, where the debris was littered.
"Yes, that is true ... you are right," answered Lydia Constantinovna.
"But then I do not love Sergius, I never have done."
"Of course I am right," Mintz retorted severely from his dim corner.
"People never love others. They love themselves--through others."
Ivanov came in from the hall in his cap and muddy boots, carrying his
rifle. Without a single word he passed through the room and went into
his study. Mintz watched him in severe silence, then followed him.
Inside he leaned against the door-post with a wry smile:
"You are shunning me all this time. Why?"
"You imagine it," returned Ivanov.
He lighted a candle on his desk, took off his coat, changed his boots
and clothes, hung up his rifle.
"That is ridiculous!" Mintz replied coldly.
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