his seat and
his former attitude. He listened also for the chiming of the hours, and
when he was sure that an hour had passed since the arrival of his
imaginary express train, he rose again, looked out of the window, watched
the wheeling of the house swallows, and assumed an air of momentary
indifference. The next ringing of the clock bells revived the illusion.
Another train was doubtless just running in to the station, and in a
quarter of an hour his friends might be with him. There was no time to be
lost. The flush returned to his cheeks as he hastily combed his smooth
hair for the twentieth time, examining his appearance minutely in the
dingy, spotted mirror, brushing his clothes--far too well brushed these
many years--and lastly making sure that there was no weak point in the
adjustment of his false collar. He made another turn of inspection round
his little room, feeling sure that there was just time to see that all was
right and in order, but already beginning to listen for a noise of
approaching people on the stairs. Once more he straightened and arranged
the patched coverlet of Turkey red cotton upon the bed, so that it should
hide the pillows and the sheets; once more he adjusted the clean towel
neatly upon the wooden peg over the washing-stand, discreetly concealing
the one he had used in the drawer of the table; for the last time he made
sure that the chair which had the broken leg was in such close and perfect
contact with the wall as to make it safely serviceable if not rashly
removed into a wider sphere of action. Then, as he passed the chest of
drawers, he gave a final touch to the half-dozen ragged-edged books which
composed his library--three volumes of Puschkin, of three different
editions, Ivan Kryloff's _Poems and Fables_, Gogol's _Terrible Revenge_,
Tolstoi's _How People Live_, and two or three more, including Koltsoff,
the shepherd poet, and an ancient guide to the city of Kiew--as
heterogeneous a collection of works as could be imagined, yet all notable
in their way, except, indeed, the guide-book, for beauty, power, or
touching truth.

And when he had touched and straightened everything in the room, he
returned to his seat, calmly expectant as ever, to wait for the footsteps
on the stairs, to rise and rub his hands, if the sound reached him, to
shake his head gravely if he were again disappointed, in short to go
through the same little round of performance as before until some chiming
clock sugg