ning-room
adorned with German oleographs and smelling of geraniums and varnish
there were two tables, a larger one for the dinner and a smaller
one for the hors-d'oeuvres. The hot light of midday faintly percolated
through the lowered blinds. . . . The twilight of the room, the
Swiss views on the blinds, the geraniums, the thin slices of sausage
on the plates, all had a naive, girlishly-sentimental air, and it
was all in keeping with the master of the house, a good-natured
little German with a round little stomach and affectionate, oily
little eyes. Adolf Andreyitch Bruni (that was his name) was bustling
round the table of hors-d'oeuvres as zealously as though it were a
house on fire, filling up the wine-glasses, loading the plates, and
trying in every way to please, to amuse, and to show his friendly
feelings. He clapped people on the shoulder, looked into their eyes,
chuckled, rubbed his hands, in fact was as ingratiating as a friendly
dog.

"Whom do I behold? Fyodor Lukitch!" he said in a jerky voice, on
seeing Sysoev. "How delightful! You have come in spite of your
illness. Gentlemen, let me congratulate you, Fyodor Lukitch has
come!"

The school-teachers were already crowding round the table and eating
the hors-d'oeuvres. Sysoev frowned; he was displeased that his
colleagues had begun to eat and drink without waiting for him. He
noticed among them Lyapunov, the man who had dictated at the
examination, and going up to him, began:

"It was not acting like a comrade! No, indeed! Gentlemanly people
don't dictate like that!"

"Good Lord, you are still harping on it!" said Lyapunov, and he
frowned. "Aren't you sick of it?"

"Yes, still harping on it! My Babkin has never made mistakes! I
know why you dictated like that. You simply wanted my pupils to be
floored, so that your school might seem better than mine. I know
all about it! . . ."

"Why are you trying to get up a quarrel?" Lyapunov snarled. "Why
the devil do you pester me?"

"Come, gentlemen," interposed the inspector, making a woebegone
face. "Is it worth while to get so heated over a trifle? Three
mistakes . . . not one mistake . . . does it matter?"

"Yes, it does matter. Babkin has never made mistakes."

"He won't leave off," Lyapunov went on, snorting angrily. "He takes
advantage of his position as an invalid and worries us all to death.
Well, sir, I am not going to consider your being ill."

"Let my illness alone!" cried Sysoev, angrily. "What