less decision.

Peredonov glanced incredulously at Marta and said:

"What do you mean—you don't want them? Have another."

He took a single caramel for himself from the handful and laid the others before Marta. She smiled without speaking and bent her head a little.

"Little idiot!" thought Peredonov, "she doesn't even know how to thank one properly."

He did not know what to converse about with Marta. She had no interest for him, like all objects and people with which he had no well-defined relations, either pleasant or unpleasant.

The rest of the beer was poured into Peredonov's glass. Vershina glanced at Marta.

"I'll get it," said Marta.

She always guessed what Vershina wanted without being told.

"Send Vladya—he's in the garden," suggested Vershina.

"Vladislav!" shouted Marta.

"Yes?" answered the boy from so close that it seemed as if he had been listening to them.

"Bring some more beer—two bottles," said Marta, "they're in the box in the corridor."

Vladislav soon came back noiselessly, handed the beer to Marta through the window and greeted Peredonov.

"How are you?" asked Peredonov with a scowl. "How many bottles of beer have you got away with to-day?"

Vladislav smiled in a constrained way and said:

"I don't drink beer."

He was a boy of about fourteen with a freckled face like Marta's, and with uneasy, clumsy movements like hers. He was dressed in a blouse of coarse linen.

Marta began to talk to her brother in whispers. They both laughed. Peredonov looked suspiciously at them. Whenever people laughed in his presence without his knowing the reason he always supposed that they were laughing at him. Vershina felt disturbed and tried to catch Marta's eye. But Peredonov himself showed his annoyance by asking:

"What are you laughing at?"

Marta started and turned towards him, not knowing what to say. Vladislav smiled, looking at Peredonov, and flushed slightly.

"It's very rude," said Peredonov, "to laugh like that before guests. Were you laughing at me?"

Marta blushed and Vladislav looked frightened.

"Oh! no," said Marta. "We weren't laughing at you. We were talking about our own affairs."

"A secret?" exclaimed Peredonov angrily. "It is rude to discuss secrets before guests."

"It isn't at all a secret," said Marta, "but we laughed because Vladya hasn't all his clothes on and feels bashful about coming in."

Peredonov was mollified and began to think of jokes about Vladya and presently gave him a caramel.

"Marta, bring me my black shawl," said Vershina. "And at the same time look into the oven to see how that pie's getting on."

Marta went out obediently. She understood that Vershina wanted to talk with Peredonov, and felt glad of the respite.

"And you run away and play, Vladya," said Vershina, "there's nothing for you to chatter about here."

Vladya ran off and they could hear the sand crunching under his feet. Vershina gave a quick, cautious side-glance at Peredonov through the clouds of cigarette smoke she was ceaselessly puffing out. Peredonov sat solemnly and gazed straight in front in a befogged sort of way and chewed a caramel. He felt pleased because the others had gone—otherwise they might have laughed again. Though he was quite certain that they had not been laughing at him, the annoyance remained—just as after contact with stinging nettles the pain remains and increases even though the nettles are left behind.

"Why don't you get married?" said Vershina very abruptly, "What are you waiting for, Ardalyon Borisitch. You must forgive me if I speak frankly, but Varvara is not good enough for you."

Peredonov passed his hand over his slightly ruffled chestnut-brown hair and announced with a surly dignity:

"There is no one here good enough for me!"

"Don't say that," replied Vershina, with a wry smile. "There are plenty of girls better than she is here and every one of them would marry you."

She knocked the ash off her cigarette with a decisive movement as if she were emphasising her remark with an exclamation point.

"Everyone wouldn't suit me," retorted Peredonov.

"We're not discussing everyone," said Vershina quickly, "you're not the kind of man who'd run after a dot if the girl were a fine girl. You yourself earn quite enough, thank God."

"No," replied Peredonov, "it would be more of an advantage for me to marry Varvara. The Princess has promised her patronage. She will give me a good billet," he went on with grave animation.

Vershina smiled faintly. Her entire wrinkled face, dark as if saturated with tobacco smoke, expressed a condescending incredulousness. She asked:

"Did the Princess herself tell you this?" She laid an emphasis on the word "you."

"Not me, but Varvara," admitted Peredonov. "But it comes to the same thing."

"You rely too much on your cousin's word," said Vershina spitefully. "But tell me, is she much older than you? Say, by fifteen years? Or more? she must be under fifty."

"Nonsense," said Peredonov angrily, "she's not yet thirty!"

Vershina laughed.

"Please tell me," she said with unconcealed derision. "Surely, she looks much older than you. Of course, it's not my business, it's not my affair. Still, it is a pity that such a good-looking, clever young man should not have the position he deserves."

Peredonov surveyed himself with great self-satisfaction. But there was no smile on his pink face and he seemed hurt because everybody did not appreciate him as Vershina did.

"Even without patronage you'll go far," continued Vershina, "surely the authorities will recognise your value. Why should you hang on to Varvara? And none even of the Routilov girls would suit you; they're too frivolous and you need a more practical wife. You might do much worse than marry Marta!"

Peredonov looked at his watch.

"Time to go home," he observed and rose to say good-bye.

Vershina was convinced that Peredonov was leaving because she had put to him a vital question and that it was only his indecision that prevented him from speaking about Marta immediately.

CHAPTER II

Varvara Dmitrievna Maloshina, the mistress of Peredonov, awaited him. She was dressed in a slovenly fashion, and her face was powdered and rouged.

Jam tarts were being baked in the oven for lunch: Peredonov was very fond of them. Varvara ran about the kitchen on her high heels, preparing everything for Peredonov's arrival. Varvara was afraid that Natalya, the stout, freckled servant-maid, would steal one of the tarts and possibly more. That was why Varvara did not leave the kitchen and, as she habitually did, was abusing the servant. Upon her wrinkled face, which still kept the remains of beauty, there was a continual expression of discontented maliciousness.

A feeling of gloom and irritation came over Peredonov, as always happened when he returned home. He entered the dining-room noisily, flung his hat on the window-sill, sat down at the table and shouted:

"Vara! Where's my food?"

Varvara brought in the food, skilfully limping in her narrow, fashionable shoes, and waited upon Peredonov herself. When she brought the coffee Peredonov bent down to the steaming glass and smelt it. Varvara was disturbed and looked a little frightened; she asked:

"What's the matter with you, Ardalyon Borisitch? Does the coffee smell of anything?"

Peredonov looked morosely at her and said:

"I'm smelling to see whether you haven't put poison in it!"

"What's the matter with you, Ardalyon Borisitch?" said Varvara again. "God help you, how did you get that into