shawl. Pyotr Dmitritch kept running out and helping
the ladies into their carriages.

"You go now by Efremovshtchina," he directed the coachman; "it's
nearer through Mankino, but the road is worse that way. You might
have an upset. . . . Good-bye, my charmer. _Mille_ compliments to
your artist!"

"Good-bye, Olga Mihalovna, darling! Go indoors, or you will catch
cold! It's damp!"

"Wo-o-o! you rascal!"

"What horses have you got here?" Pyotr Dmitritch asked.

"They were bought from Haidorov, in Lent," answered the coachman.

"Capital horses. . . ."

And Pyotr Dmitritch patted the trace horse on the haunch.

"Well, you can start! God give you good luck!"

The last visitor was gone at last; the red circle on the road
quivered, moved aside, contracted and went out, as Vassily carried
away the lamp from the entrance. On previous occasions when they
had seen off their visitors, Pyotr Dmitritch and Olga Mihalovna had
begun dancing about the drawing-room, facing each other, clapping
their hands and singing: "They've gone! They've gone!" But now Olga
Mihalovna was not equal to that. She went to her bedroom, undressed,
and got into bed.

She fancied she would fall asleep at once and sleep soundly. Her
legs and her shoulders ached painfully, her head was heavy from the
strain of talking, and she was conscious, as before, of discomfort
all over her body. Covering her head over, she lay still for three
or four minutes, then peeped out from under the bed-clothes at the
lamp before the ikon, listened to the silence, and smiled.

"It's nice, it's nice," she whispered, curling up her legs, which
felt as if they had grown longer from so much walking. "Sleep, sleep
. . . ."

Her legs would not get into a comfortable position; she felt uneasy
all over, and she turned on the other side. A big fly blew buzzing
about the bedroom and thumped against the ceiling. She could hear,
too, Grigory and Vassily stepping cautiously about the drawing-room,
putting the chairs back in their places; it seemed to Olga Mihalovna
that she could not go to sleep, nor be comfortable till those sounds
were hushed. And again she turned over on the other side impatiently.

She heard her husband's voice in the drawing-room. Some one must
be staying the night, as Pyotr Dmitritch was addressing some one
and speaking loudly:

"I don't say that Count Alexey Petrovitch is an impostor. But he
can't help seeming to be one, because all of you gentlemen at