"Please do. . . . If he sees you there will be trouble. . . . My
father is a man of strict principles. He would curse me in seven
churches. Don't go out of doors, Liza, that is all. He won't be
here long. Don't be afraid."

Father Pyotr did not long keep them waiting. One fine morning Ivan
Petrovitch ran in and hissed in a mysterious tone:

"He has come! He is asleep now, so please be careful."

And Liza was shut up within four walls. She did not venture to go
out into the yard or on to the verandah. She could only see the sky
from behind the window curtain. Unluckily for her, Ivan Petrovitch's
papa spent his whole time in the open air, and even slept on the
verandah. Usually Father Pyotr, a little parish priest, in a brown
cassock and a top hat with a curly brim, walked slowly round the
villas and gazed with curiosity at the "strange lands" through his
grandfatherly spectacles. Ivan Petrovitch with the Stanislav on a
little ribbon accompanied him. He did not wear a decoration as a
rule, but before his own people he liked to show off. In their
society he always wore the Stanislav.

Liza was bored to death. Groholsky suffered too. He had to go for
his walks alone without a companion. He almost shed tears, but . . .
had to submit to his fate. And to make things worse, Bugrov would
run across every morning and in a hissing whisper would give some
quite unnecessary bulletin concerning the health of Father Pyotr.
He bored them with those bulletins.

"He slept well," he informed them. "Yesterday he was put out because
I had no salted cucumbers. . . He has taken to Mishutka; he keeps
patting him on the head."

At last, a fortnight later, little Father Pyotr walked for the last
time round the villas and, to Groholsky's immense relief, departed.
He had enjoyed himself, and went off very well satisfied. Liza and
Groholsky fell back into their old manner of life. Groholsky once
more blessed his fate. But his happiness did not last for long. A
new trouble worse than Father Pyotr followed. Ivan Petrovitch took
to coming to see them every day. Ivan Petrovitch, to be frank,
though a capital fellow, was a very tedious person. He came at
dinner-time, dined with them and stayed a very long time. That would
not have mattered. But they had to buy vodka, which Groholsky could
not endure, for his dinner. He would drink five glasses and talk
the whole dinner-time. That, too, would not have mattered. . . .
But he would sit on till tw