nous_. . . . Give me your word of honour you won't tell a soul?"

"What next! Of course I won't tell."

"Honour bright? Mind now! I trust you. . . ."

The little lady put down her fork, assumed a mysterious air, and
whispered:

"Imagine a thing like this. . . . That Yulia Petrovna rode up into
the mountains . . . . It was glorious weather! She rode on ahead
with her guide, I was a little behind. We had ridden two or three
miles, all at once, only fancy, Vassitchka, Yulia cried out and
clutched at her bosom. Her Tatar put his arm round her waist or she
would have fallen off the saddle. . . . I rode up to her with my
guide. . . . 'What is it? What is the matter?' 'Oh,' she cried, 'I
am dying! I feel faint! I can't go any further' Fancy my alarm!
'Let us go back then,' I said. 'No, _Natalie_,' she said, 'I can't
go back! I shall die of pain if I move another step! I have spasms.'
And she prayed and besought my Suleiman and me to ride back to the
town and fetch her some of her drops which always do her good."

"Stay. . . . I don't quite understand you," muttered the husband,
scratching his forehead. "You said just now that you had only seen
those Tatars from a distance, and now you are talking of some
Suleiman."

"There, you are finding fault again," the lady pouted, not in the
least disconcerted. "I can't endure suspiciousness! I can't endure
it! It's stupid, stupid!"

"I am not finding fault, but . . . why say what is not true? If you
rode about with Tatars, so be it, God bless you, but . . . why
shuffle about it?"

"H'm! . . . you are a queer one!" cried the lady, revolted. "He is
jealous of Suleiman! as though one could ride up into the mountains
without a guide! I should like to see you do it! If you don't know
the ways there, if you don't understand, you had better hold your
tongue! Yes, hold your tongue. You can't take a step there without
a guide."

"So it seems!"

"None of your silly grins, if you please! I am not a Yulia. . . .
I don't justify her but I . . . ! Though I don't pose as a saint,
I don't forget myself to that degree. My Suleiman never overstepped
the limits. . . . No-o! Mametkul used to be sitting at Yulia's all
day long, but in my room as soon as it struck eleven: 'Suleiman,
march! Off you go!' And my foolish Tatar boy would depart. I made
him mind his p's and q's, hubby! As soon as he began grumbling about
money or anything, I would say 'How? Wha-at? Wha-a-a-t?' And his
heart would b