“What do you want?” asked the actor in a bass voice, looking at Dymov ungraciously.  “Do you want Olga Ivanovna?  Wait a minute; she will be here directly.”

Dymov sat down and waited.  One of the dark-haired men, looking sleepily and listlessly at him, poured himself out a glass of tea, and asked: 

“Perhaps you would like some tea?”

Dymov was both hungry and thirsty, but he refused tea for fear of spoiling his supper.  Soon he heard footsteps and a familiar laugh; a door slammed, and Olga Ivanovna ran into the room, wearing a wide-brimmed hat and carrying a box in her hand; she was followed by Ryabovsky, rosy and good-humoured, carrying a big umbrella and a camp-stool.

“Dymov!” cried Olga Ivanovna, and she flushed crimson with pleasure.  “Dymov!” she repeated, laying her head and both arms on his bosom.  “Is that you?  Why haven’t you come for so long?  Why?  Why?”

“When could I, little mother?  I am always busy, and whenever I am free it always happens somehow that the train does not fit.”

“But how glad I am to see you!  I have been dreaming about you the whole night, the whole night, and I was afraid you must be ill.  Ah! if you only knew how sweet you are!  You have come in the nick of time!  You will be my salvation!  You are the only person who can save me!  There is to be a most original wedding here tomorrow,” she went on, laughing, and tying her husband’s cravat.  “A young telegraph clerk at the station, called Tchikeldyeev, is going to be married.  He is a handsome young man and—­well, not stupid, and you know there is something strong, bearlike in his face... you might paint him as a young Norman.  We summer visitors take a great interest in him, and have promised to be at his wedding....  He is a lonely, timid man, not well off, and of course it would be a shame not to be sympathetic to him.  Fancy! the wedding will be after the service; then we shall all walk from the church to the bride’s lodgings... you see the wood, the birds singing, patches of sunlight on the grass, and all of us spots of different colours against the bright green background—­very original, in the style of the French impressionists.  But, Dymov, what am I to go to the church in?” said Olga Ivanovna, and she looked as though she were going to cry.  “I have nothing here, literally nothing! no dress, no flowers, no gloves... you must save me.  Since you have come, fate itself bids you save me.  Take the keys, my precious, go home and get my pink dress from the wardrobe.  You remember it; it hangs in front....  Then, in the storeroom, on the floor, on the right side, you will see two cardboard boxes.  When you open the top one you will see tulle, heaps of tulle and rags of all sorts, and under them flowers.  Take out all the flowers carefully, try not to crush them, darling; I will choose among them later....  And buy me some gloves.”

“Very well,” said Dymov; “I will go tomorrow and send them to you.”