le that must have come from some peasant hut
or kitchen, chairs and a sofa with trellis-work back and hard leather
cushions. In one corner there was an old-fashioned ikon, in front of
which the old woman had lighted a lamp before we came in, and on the
walls hung two dingy oil-paintings, one, a portrait of the Tsar Nikolas
I, painted apparently between 1820 and 1830; the other the portrait of
some bishop. Mr. Kirillov lighted a candle and took out of his trunk,
which stood not yet unpacked in a corner, an envelope, sealing-wax, and
a glass seal.

"Seal your note and address the envelope."

I would have objected that this was unnecessary, but he insisted. When I
had addressed the envelope I took my cap.

"I was thinking you'd have tea," he said. "I have bought tea. Will you?"

I could not refuse. The old woman soon brought in the tea, that is, a
very large tea-pot of boiling water, a little tea-pot full of strong
tea, two large earthenware cups, coarsely decorated, a fancy loaf, and a
whole deep saucer of lump sugar.

"I love tea at night," said he. "I walk much and drink it till daybreak.
Abroad tea at night is inconvenient."

"You go to bed at daybreak?"

"Always; for a long while. I eat little; always tea. Liputin's sly, but
impatient."

I was surprised at his wanting to talk; I made up my mind to take
advantage of the opportunity. "There were unpleasant misunderstandings
this morning," I observed.

He scowled.

"That's foolishness; that's great nonsense. All this is nonsense because
Lebyadkin is drunk. I did not tell Liputin, but only explained the
nonsense, because he got it all wrong. Liputin has a great deal of
fantasy, he built up a mountain out of nonsense. I trusted Liputin
yesterday."

"And me to-day?" I said, laughing.

"But you see, you knew all about it already this morning; Liputin is
weak or impatient, or malicious or... he's envious."

The last word struck me.

"You've mentioned so many adjectives, however, that it would be strange
if one didn't describe him."

"Or all at once."

"Yes, and that's what Liputin really is--he's a chaos. He was lying this
morning when he said you were writing something, wasn't he?

"Why should he?" he said, scowling again and staring at the floor.

I apologised, and began assuring him that I was not inquisitive. He
flushed.

"He told the truth; I am writing. Only that's no matter."

We were silent for a minute. He suddenly smiled with the childlike