_maman_. And I did complain, mentioning incidentally how Sasha had
kissed Zinotchka. I was stupid, and did not know what would follow,
or I should have kept the secret to myself. . . . After hearing my
story _maman_ flushed with indignation and said:

"'It is not your business to speak about that, you are still very
young. . . . But, what an example for children.'

"My _maman_ was not only virtuous but diplomatic. To avoid a scandal
she did not get rid of Zinotchka at once, but set to work gradually,
systematically, to pave the way for her departure, as one does with
well-bred but intolerable people. I remember that when Zinotchka
did leave us the last glance she cast at the house was directed at
the window at which I was sitting, and I assure you, I remember
that glance to this day.

"Zinotchka soon afterwards became my brother's wife. She is the
Zinaida Nikolaevna whom you know. The next time I met her I was
already an ensign. In spite of all her efforts she could not recognize
the hated Petya in the ensign with his moustache, but still she did
not treat me quite like a relation. . . . And even now, in spite
of my good-humoured baldness, meek corpulence, and unassuming air,
she still looks askance at me, and feels put out when I go to see
my brother. Hatred it seems can no more be forgotten than
love. . . .

"Tchoo! I hear the cock crowing! Good-night. Milord! Lie down!"

BAD WEATHER

BIG raindrops were pattering on the dark windows. It was one of
those disgusting summer holiday rains which, when they have begun,
last a long time--for weeks, till the frozen holiday maker grows
used to it, and sinks into complete apathy. It was cold; there was
a feeling of raw, unpleasant dampness. The mother-in-law of a lawyer,
called Kvashin, and his wife, Nadyezhda Filippovna, dressed in
waterproofs and shawls, were sitting over the dinner table in the
dining-room. It was written on the countenance of the elder lady
that she was, thank God, well-fed, well-clothed and in good health,
that she had married her only daughter to a good man, and now could
play her game of patience with an easy conscience; her daughter, a
rather short, plump, fair young woman of twenty, with a gentle
anaemic face, was reading a book with her elbows on the table; judging
from her eyes she was not so much reading as thinking her own
thoughts, which were not in the book. Neither of them spoke. There
was the sound of the pattering rain, and from th