“He does not sleep at night, and is always thinking and thinking and thinking, and what he is thinking about God only knows.  If you go to him at night he is angry and laughs.  He doesn’t like me either . . . .  And there is nothing he wants!  When our father died he left us each six thousand roubles.  I bought myself an inn, married, and now I have children; and he burnt all his money in the stove.  Such a pity, such a pity!  Why burn it?  If he didn’t want it he could give it to me, but why burn it?”

Suddenly the swing-door creaked and the floor shook under footsteps.  Yegorushka felt a draught of cold air, and it seemed to him as though some big black bird had passed by him and had fluttered its wings close in his face.  He opened his eyes. . . .  His uncle was standing by the sofa with his sack in his hands ready for departure; Father Christopher, holding his broad-brimmed top-hat, was bowing to someone and smiling—­not his usual soft kindly smile, but a respectful forced smile which did not suit his face at all—­while Moisey Moisevitch looked as though his body had been broken into three parts, and he were balancing and doing his utmost not to drop to pieces.  Only Solomon stood in the corner with his arms folded, as though nothing had happened, and smiled contemptuously as before.

“Your Excellency must excuse us for not being tidy,” moaned Moisey Moisevitch with the agonizingly sweet smile, taking no more notice of Kuzmitchov or Father Christopher, but swaying his whole person so as to avoid dropping to pieces.  “We are plain folks, your Excellency.”

Yegorushka rubbed his eyes.  In the middle of the room there really was standing an Excellency, in the form of a young plump and very beautiful woman in a black dress and a straw hat.  Before Yegorushka had time to examine her features the image of the solitary graceful poplar he had seen that day on the hill for some reason came into his mind.

“Has Varlamov been here to-day?” a woman’s voice inquired.

“No, your Excellency,” said Moisey Moisevitch.

“If you see him to-morrow, ask him to come and see me for a minute.”

All at once, quite unexpectedly, Yegorushka saw half an inch from his eyes velvety black eyebrows, big brown eyes, delicate feminine cheeks with dimples, from which smiles seemed radiating all over the face like sunbeams.  There was a glorious scent.

“What a pretty boy!” said the lady.  “Whose boy is it?  Kazimir Mihalovitch, look what a charming fellow!  Good heavens, he is asleep!”

And the lady kissed Yegorushka warmly on both cheeks, and he smiled and, thinking he was asleep, shut his eyes.  The swing-door squeaked, and there was the sound of hurried footsteps, coming in and going out.

“Yegorushka, Yegorushka!” he heard two bass voices whisper.  “Get up; it is time to start.”

Somebody, it seemed to be Deniska, set him on his feet and led him by the arm.  On the way he half-opened his eyes and once more saw the beautiful lady in the black dress who had kissed him.  She was standing in the middle of the room and watched him go out, smiling at him and nodding her head in a friendly way.  As he got near the door he saw a handsome, stoutly built, dark man in a bowler hat and in leather gaiters.  This must have been the lady’s escort.