looked at the grey church almost with dislike.

"They complain of the decline of religious feeling among the people
. . ." he sighed. "I should rather think so! They'd better foist a
few more priests like this one on them!"

Kunin went back into the church three times, and each time he felt
a great temptation to get out into the open air again. Waiting till
the end of the mass, he went to Father Yakov's. The priest's house
did not differ outwardly from the peasants' huts, but the thatch
lay more smoothly on the roof and there were little white curtains
in the windows. Father Yakov led Kunin into a light little room
with a clay floor and walls covered with cheap paper; in spite of
some painful efforts towards luxury in the way of photographs in
frames and a clock with a pair of scissors hanging on the weight
the furnishing of the room impressed him by its scantiness. Looking
at the furniture, one might have supposed that Father Yakov had
gone from house to house and collected it in bits; in one place
they had given him a round three-legged table, in another a stool,
in a third a chair with a back bent violently backwards; in a fourth
a chair with an upright back, but the seat smashed in; while in a
fifth they had been liberal and given him a semblance of a sofa
with a flat back and a lattice-work seat. This semblance had been
painted dark red and smelt strongly of paint. Kunin meant at first
to sit down on one of the chairs, but on second thoughts he sat
down on the stool.

"This is the first time you have been to our church?" asked Father
Yakov, hanging his hat on a huge misshapen nail.

"Yes it is. I tell you what, Father, before we begin on business,
will you give me some tea? My soul is parched."

Father Yakov blinked, gasped, and went behind the partition wall.
There was a sound of whispering.

"With his wife, I suppose," thought Kunin; "it would be interesting
to see what the red-headed fellow's wife is like."

A little later Father Yakov came back, red and perspiring and with
an effort to smile, sat down on the edge of the sofa.

"They will heat the samovar directly," he said, without looking at
his visitor.

"My goodness, they have not heated the samovar yet!" Kunin thought
with horror. "A nice time we shall have to wait."

"I have brought you," he said, "the rough draft of the letter I
have written to the bishop. I'll read it after tea; perhaps you may
find something to add. . . ."

"Very well."