“My respects to you!” Grisha hears suddenly, almost above his ear, a loud thick voice, and he sees a tall man with bright buttons.

To his great delight, this man gives nurse his hand, stops, and begins talking to her.  The brightness of the sun, the noise of the carriages, the horses, the bright buttons are all so impressively new and not dreadful, that Grisha’s soul is filled with a feeling of enjoyment and he begins to laugh.

“Come along!  Come along!” he cries to the man with the bright buttons, tugging at his coattails.

“Come along where?” asks the man.

“Come along!” Grisha insists.

He wants to say that it would be just as well to take with them papa, mamma, and the cat, but his tongue does not say what he wants to.

A little later, nurse turns out of the boulevard, and leads Grisha into a big courtyard where there is still snow; and the man with the bright buttons comes with them too.  They carefully avoid the lumps of snow and the puddles, then, by a dark and dirty staircase, they go into a room.  Here there is a great deal of smoke, there is a smell of roast meat, and a woman is standing by the stove frying cutlets.  The cook and the nurse kiss each other, and sit down on the bench together with the man, and begin talking in a low voice.  Grisha, wrapped up as he is, feels insufferably hot and stifled.

“Why is this?” he wonders, looking about him.

He sees the dark ceiling, the oven fork with two horns, the stove which looks like a great black hole.

“Mam-ma,” he drawls.

“Come, come, come!” cries the nurse.  “Wait a bit!”

The cook puts a bottle on the table, two wine-glasses, and a pie.  The two women and the man with the bright buttons clink glasses and empty them several times, and, the man puts his arm round first the cook and then the nurse.  And then all three begin singing in an undertone.

Grisha stretches out his hand towards the pie, and they give him a piece of it.  He eats it and watches nurse drinking. . . .  He wants to drink too.

“Give me some, nurse!” he begs.

The cook gives him a sip out of her glass.  He rolls his eyes, blinks, coughs, and waves his hands for a long time afterwards, while the cook looks at him and laughs.

When he gets home Grisha begins to tell mamma, the walls, and the bed where he has been, and what he has seen.  He talks not so much with his tongue, as with his face and his hands.  He shows how the sun shines, how the horses run, how the terrible stove looks, and how the cook drinks. . . .

In the evening he cannot get to sleep.  The soldiers with the brooms, the big cats, the horses, the bit of glass, the tray of oranges, the bright buttons, all gathered together, weigh on his brain.  He tosses from side to side, babbles, and, at last, unable to endure his excitement, begins crying.

“You are feverish,” says mamma, putting her open hand on his forehead.  “What can have caused it?