your cottage is weighed down and whines
pitifully. That corner ought to have been taken more in shadow, but on
the whole it is not bad; I like it."

And the more incomprehensible he talked, the more readily Olga Ivanovna
understood him.

III

After dinner on the second day of Trinity week, Dymov bought some sweets
and some savouries and went down to the villa to see his wife. He had
not seen her for a fortnight, and missed her terribly. As he sat in the
train and afterwards as he looked for his villa in a big wood, he felt
all the while hungry and weary, and dreamed of how he would have supper
in freedom with his wife, then tumble into bed and to sleep. And he
was delighted as he looked at his parcel, in which there was caviare,
cheese, and white salmon.

The sun was setting by the time he found his villa and recognized it.
The old servant told him that her mistress was not at home, but
that most likely she would soon be in. The villa, very uninviting in
appearance, with low ceilings papered with writing-paper and with uneven
floors full of crevices, consisted only of three rooms. In one there was
a bed, in the second there were canvases, brushes, greasy papers, and
men's overcoats and hats lying about on the chairs and in the windows,
while in the third Dymov found three unknown men; two were dark-haired
and had beards, the other was clean-shaven and fat, apparently an actor.
There was a samovar boiling on the table.

"What do you want?" asked the actor in a bass voice, looking at Dymov
ungraciously. "Do you want Olga Ivanovna? Wait a minute; she will be
here directly."

Dymov sat down and waited. One of the dark-haired men, looking sleepily
and listlessly at him, poured himself out a glass of tea, and asked:

"Perhaps you would like some tea?"

Dymov was both hungry and thirsty, but he refused tea for fear of
spoiling his supper. Soon he heard footsteps and a familiar laugh;
a door slammed, and Olga Ivanovna ran into the room, wearing a
wide-brimmed hat and carrying a box in her hand; she was followed
by Ryabovsky, rosy and good-humoured, carrying a big umbrella and a
camp-stool.

"Dymov!" cried Olga Ivanovna, and she flushed crimson with pleasure.
"Dymov!" she repeated, laying her head and both arms on his bosom. "Is
that you? Why haven't you come for so long? Why? Why?"

"When could I, little mother? I am always busy, and whenever I am free
it always happens somehow that the train does not fit."

"Bu