ws. On one wall, however, there hung a list of regulations of
some sort under a two-headed eagle in a grey wooden frame, and on
another wall in the same sort of frame an engraving with the
inscription, "The Indifference of Man." What it was to which men
were indifferent it was impossible to make out, as the engraving
was very dingy with age and was extensively flyblown. There was a
smell of something decayed and sour in the room.

As he led the visitors into the room, Moisey Moisevitch went on
wriggling, gesticulating, shrugging and uttering joyful exclamations;
he considered these antics necessary in order to seem polite and
agreeable.

"When did our waggons go by?" Kuzmitchov asked.

"One party went by early this morning, and the other, Ivan Ivanitch,
put up here for dinner and went on towards evening."

"Ah! . . . Has Varlamov been by or not?"

"No, Ivan Ivanitch. His clerk, Grigory Yegoritch, went by yesterday
morning and said that he had to be to-day at the Molokans' farm."

"Good! so we will go after the waggons directly and then on to the
Molokans'."

"Mercy on us, Ivan Ivanitch!" Moisey Moisevitch cried in horror,
flinging up his hands. "Where are you going for the night? You will
have a nice little supper and stay the night, and to-morrow morning,
please God, you can go on and overtake anyone you like."

"There is no time for that. . . . Excuse me, Moisey Moisevitch,
another time; but now I must make haste. We'll stay a quarter of
an hour and then go on; we can stay the night at the Molokans'."

"A quarter of an hour!" squealed Moisey Moisevitch. "Have you no
fear of God, Ivan Ivanitch? You will compel me to hide your caps
and lock the door! You must have a cup of tea and a snack of
something, anyway."

"We have no time for tea," said Kuzmitchov.

Moisey Moisevitch bent his head on one side, crooked his knees, and
put his open hands before him as though warding off a blow, while
with a smile of agonized sweetness he began imploring:

"Ivan Ivanitch! Father Christopher! Do be so good as to take a cup
of tea with me. Surely I am not such a bad man that you can't even
drink tea in my house? Ivan Ivanitch!"

"Well, we may just as well have a cup of tea," said Father Christopher,
with a sympathetic smile; "that won't keep us long."

"Very well," Kuzmitchov assented.

Moisey Moisevitch, in a fluster uttered an exclamation of joy, and
shrugging as though he had just stepped out of cold weather into