After tea Yartsev sang songs, accompanying himself on the piano, while Yulia and Kotchevoy sat listening in silence, though Yulia got up from time to time, and went softly indoors, to take a look at the baby and at Lida, who had been in bed for the last two days feverish and eating nothing.

“My friend, my tender friend,” sang Yartsev.  “No, my friends, I’ll be hanged if I understand why you are all so against love!” he said, flinging back his head.  “If I weren’t busy for fifteen hours of the twenty-four, I should certainly fall in love.”

Supper was served on the verandah; it was warm and still, but Yulia wrapped herself in a shawl and complained of the damp.  When it got dark, she seemed not quite herself; she kept shivering and begging her visitors to stay a little longer.  She regaled them with wine, and after supper ordered brandy to keep them from going.  She didn’t want to be left alone with the children and the servants.

“We summer visitors are getting up a performance for the children,” she said.  “We have got everything—­a stage and actors; we are only at a loss for a play.  Two dozen plays of different sorts have been sent us, but there isn’t one that is suitable.  Now, you are fond of the theatre, and are so good at history,” she said, addressing Yartsev.  “Write an historical play for us.”

“Well, I might.”

The men drank up all the brandy, and prepared to go.

It was past ten, and for summer-villa people that was late.

“How dark it is!  One can’t see a bit,” said Yulia, as she went with them to the gate.  “I don’t know how you’ll find your way.  But, isn’t it cold?”

She wrapped herself up more closely and walked back to the porch.

“I suppose my Alexey’s playing cards somewhere,” she called to them.  “Good-night!”

After the lighted rooms nothing could be seen.  Yartsev and Kostya groped their way like blind men to the railway embankment and crossed it.

“One can’t see a thing,” said Kostya in his bass voice, standing still and gazing at the sky.  “And the stars, the stars, they are like new three-penny-bits.  Gavrilitch!”

“Ah?” Yartsev responded somewhere in the darkness.

“I say, one can’t see a thing.  Where are you?”

Yartsev went up to him whistling, and took his arm.

“Hi, there, you summer visitors!” Kostya shouted at the top of his voice.  “We’ve caught a socialist.”

When he was exhilarated he was always very rowdy, shouting, wrangling with policemen and cabdrivers, singing, and laughing violently.

“Nature be damned,” he shouted.

“Come, come,” said Yartsev, trying to pacify him.  “You mustn’t.  Please don’t.”