's too bad."

"That's true, Lida--that's true," the mother assented. "It isn't
right."

"Our whole district is in the hands of Balagin," Lida went on,
addressing me. "He is the chairman of the Zemstvo Board, and he has
distributed all the posts in the district among his nephews and
sons-in-law; and he does as he likes. He ought to be opposed. The
young men ought to make a strong party, but you see what the young
men among us are like. It's a shame, Pyotr Petrovitch!"

The younger sister, Genya, was silent while they were talking of
the Zemstvo. She took no part in serious conversation. She was not
looked upon as quite grown up by her family, and, like a child, was
always called by the nickname of Misuce, because that was what she
had called her English governess when she was a child. She was all
the time looking at me with curiosity, and when I glanced at the
photographs in the album, she explained to me: "That's uncle . . .
that's god-father," moving her finger across the photograph. As she
did so she touched me with her shoulder like a child, and I had a
close view of her delicate, undeveloped chest, her slender shoulders,
her plait, and her thin little body tightly drawn in by her sash.

We played croquet and lawn tennis, we walked about the garden, drank
tea, and then sat a long time over supper. After the huge empty
room with columns, I felt, as it were, at home in this small snug
house where there were no oleographs on the walls and where the
servants were spoken to with civility. And everything seemed to me
young and pure, thanks to the presence of Lida and Misuce, and there
was an atmosphere of refinement over everything. At supper Lida
talked to Byelokurov again of the Zemstvo, of Balagin, and of school
libraries. She was an energetic, genuine girl, with convictions,
and it was interesting to listen to her, though she talked a great
deal and in a loud voice--perhaps because she was accustomed to
talking at school. On the other hand, Pyotr Petrovitch, who had
retained from his student days the habit of turning every conversation
into an argument, was tedious, flat, long-winded, and unmistakably
anxious to appear clever and advanced. Gesticulating, he upset a
sauce-boat with his sleeve, making a huge pool on the tablecloth,
but no one except me appeared to notice it.

It was dark and still as we went home.

"Good breeding is shown, not by not upsetting the sauce, but by not
noticing it when somebody else