and some one walks into the entry stamping his feet like a
horse, snorting and puffing with the cold.

"Damn it all, nowhere to hang one's coat!" the singer hears a husky
bass voice. "Celebrated singer, look at that! Makes five thousand
a year, and can't get a decent hat-stand!"

"My husband!" thinks the singer, frowning. "And I believe he has
brought one of his friends to stay the night too. . . . Hateful!"

No more peace. When the loud noise of some one blowing his nose and
putting off his goloshes dies away, the singer hears cautious
footsteps in her bedroom. . . . It is her husband, _mari d'elle_,
Denis Petrovitch Nikitin. He brings a whiff of cold air and a smell
of brandy. For a long while he walks about the bedroom, breathing
heavily, and, stumbling against the chairs in the dark, seems to
be looking for something. . . .

"What do you want?" his wife moans, when she is sick of his fussing
about. "You have woken me."

"I am looking for the matches, my love. You . . . you are not asleep
then? I have brought you a message. . . . Greetings from that . . .
what's-his-name? . . . red-headed fellow who is always sending
you bouquets. . . . Zagvozdkin. . . . I have just been to see him."

"What did you go to him for?"

"Oh, nothing particular. . . . We sat and talked and had a drink.
Say what you like, Nathalie, I dislike that individual--I dislike
him awfully! He is a rare blockhead. He is a wealthy man, a capitalist;
he has six hundred thousand, and you would never guess it. Money
is no more use to him than a radish to a dog. He does not eat it
himself nor give it to others. Money ought to circulate, but he
keeps tight hold of it, is afraid to part with it. . . . What's the
good of capital lying idle? Capital lying idle is no better than
grass."

_Mari d'elle_ gropes his way to the edge of the bed and, puffing,
sits down at his wife's feet.

"Capital lying idle is pernicious," he goes on. "Why has business
gone downhill in Russia? Because there is so much capital lying
idle among us; they are afraid to invest it. It's very different
in England. . . . There are no such queer fish as Zagvozdkin in
England, my girl. . . . There every farthing is in circulation
. . . . Yes. . . . They don't keep it locked up in chests there
. . . ."

"Well, that's all right. I am sleepy."

"Directly. . . . Whatever was it I was talking about? Yes. . . .
In these hard times hanging is too good for Zagvozdkin. . . . He
is a f