reins and drove off.
'Ge-ee up!' shouted Mishutka.
Liza, unaware of what she was doing, waved her handkerchief after them. If she had looked in the glass she would have been surprised at her flushed, laughing, and, at the same time, tear-stained face. She was vexed that she was not beside her gleeful boy, and that she could not for some reason shower kisses on him at once.
For some reason! . . . Away with all your petty delicacies!
'Grisha! Grisha!' Liza ran into Groholsky's bedroom and set to work to wake him. 'Get up, they have come! The darling!'
'Who has come?' asked Groholsky, waking up.
'Our people . . . Vanya and Misha, they have come, they are in the villa opposite. . . . I looked out, and there they were drinking tea. . . . And Misha too. . . . What a little angel our Misha has grown! If only you had seen him! Mother of God!'
'Seen whom? Why, you are. . . . Who has come? Come where?'
'Vanya and Misha. . . . I have been looking at the villa opposite, while they were sitting drinking tea. Misha can drink his tea by himself now. . . . Didn't you see them moving in yesterday, it was they who arrived!'
Groholsky rubbed his forehead and turned pale.
'Arrived? Your husband?' he asked.
'Why, yes.'
'What for?'
'Most likely he is going to live here. They don't know we are here. If they did, they would have looked at our villa, but they drank their tea and took no notice.'
'Where is he now? But for God's sake do talk sense! Oh, where is he?'
'He has gone fishing with Misha in the chaise. Did you see the horses yesterday? Those are their horses . . . Vanya's . . . Vanya drives with them. Do you know what, Grisha? We will have Misha to stay with us. . . . We will, won't we? He is such a pretty boy. Such an exquisite boy!'
Groholsky pondered, while Liza went on talking and talking.
'This is an unexpected meeting,' said Groholsky, after prolonged and, as usual, harrassing reflection. 'Well, who could have expected that we should meet here? Well. . . There it is. . . . So be it. It seems that it is fated. I can imagine the awkwardness of his position when he meets us.'
'Shall we have Misha to stay with us?'
'Yes, we will. . . . It will be awkward meeting him. . . . Why, what can I say to him? What can I talk of? It will be awkward for him and awkward for me. . . . We ought not to meet. We will carry on communications, if necessary, through the servants. . . . My head does ache so, Lizotchka. My arms and legs too, I ache all over. Is my head feverish?
Liza put her hand on his forehead and found that his head was hot.
'I had dreadful dreams all night . . . I shan't get up to-day. I shall stay in bed . . . I must take some quinine. Send me my breakfast here, little woman.'
Groholsky took quinine and lay in bed the whole day. He drank warm water, moaned, had the sheets and pillowcase changed, whimpered, and induced an agonising boredom in all surrounding him.
He was insupportable when he imagined he had caught a chill. Liza had continually to interrupt her inquisitive observations and run from the verandah to his room. At dinner-time she had to put on mustard plasters. How boring all this would have been, O reader, if the villa opposite had not been at the service of my heroine! Liza watched that villa all day long and was gasping with happiness.
At ten o'clock Ivan Petrovitch and Mishutka came back from fishing and had breakfast. At two o'clock they had dinner, and at four o'clock they drove off somewhere in a carriage. The white horses bore them away with the swiftness of lightning. At seven o'clock visitors came to see them -- all of them men. They were playing cards on two tables in the verandah till midnight. One of the men played superbly on the piano. The visitors played, ate, drank, and laughed. Ivan Petrovitch guffawing loudly, told them an anecdote of Armenian life at the top of his voice, so that all the villas round could hear. It was very gay and Mishutka sat up with them till midnight.
'Misha is merry, he is not crying,' thought Liza, 'so he does not remember his mamma. So he has forgotten me!'
And there was a horrible bitter feeling in Liza' s soul. She spent the whole night crying. She was fretted by her little conscience, and by vexation and misery, and the desire to talk to Mishutka and kiss him. . . . In the morning she got up with a headache and tear-stained eyes. Her tears Groholsky put down to his own account.
'Do not weep, darling,' he said to her, 'I am all right to-day, my chest is a little painful, but that is nothing.'
While they were having tea, lunch was being served at the villa opposite. Ivan Petrovitch was looking at his plate, and seeing nothing but a morsel of goose dripping with fat.
'I am very glad,' said Groholsky, looking askance at Bugrov, 'very glad that his life is so tolerable! I hope that decent surroundings anyway may help to stifle his grief. Keep out of sight, Liza! They will see you . . . I am not disposed to talk to him just now . . . God be with him! Why trouble his peace?'
But the dinner did not pass off so quietly. During dinner precisely that 'awkward position' which Groholsky so dreaded occurred. Just when the partridges, Groholsky's favorite dish, had been put on the table, Liza was suddenly overcome with confusion, and Groholsky began wiping his face with his dinner napkin. On the verandah of the villa opposite they saw Bugrov. He was standing with his arms leaning on the parapet, and staring straight at them, with his eyes starting out of his head.
'Go in, Liza, go in,' Groholsky whispered. 'I said we must have dinner indoors! What a girl you are, really. . . .'
Bugrov stared and stared, and suddenly began shouting. Groholsky looked at him and saw a face full of astonishment. . . .
'Is that you ?' bawled Ivan Petrovitch, 'you! Are you here too?'
Groholsky passed his fingers from one shoulder to another, as though to say, 'My chest is weak, and so I can't shout across such a distance.' Liza's heart began throbbing, and everything turned round before her eyes. Bugrov ran from his verandah, ran across the road, and a few seconds later was standing under the verandah on which Groholsky and Liza were dining. Alas for the partridges!
'How are you?' he began, flushing crimson, and stuffing his big hands in his pockets. 'Are you here? Are you here too?'
'Yes, we are here too. . . .'
'How did you get here?'
'Why, how did you?'
'I? It's a long story, a regular romance, my good friend! But don't put yourselves out -- eat your dinner! I've been living, you know, ever since then . . . in the Oryol province. I rented an estate. A splendid estate! But do eat your dinner! I stayed there from the end of May, but now I have given it up. . . . It was cold there, and -- well, the doctor advised me to go to the Crimea. . . .'
'Are you ill, then?' inquired Groholsky.
'Oh, well. . . . There always seems, as it were. . . something gurgling here. . . .'
And at the word 'here' Ivan Petrovitch passed his open hand from his neck down to the middle of his stomach.
'So you are here too. . . . Yes . . . that's very pleasant. Have you been here long?'
'Since July.'
'Oh, and you, Liza, how are you? Quite well?'
'Quite well,' answered Liza, and was embarrassed.
'You miss Mishutka, I'll be bound. Eh? Well, he's here with me. . . . I'll send him over to you directly with Nikifor. This is very nice. Well, good-bye! I have to go off directly. . . . I made the acquaintance of Prince Ter- Haimazov yesterday; delightful man, though he is an Armenian. So he has a croquet party to-day; we are going to play croquet. . . . Good-bye! The carriage is waiting. . . .'
Ivan Petrovitch whirled round, tossed his head, and, waving adieu to them, ran home.
'Unhappy man,' said Groholsky, heaving a deep sigh as he watched him go off.
'In what way is he unhappy?' asked Liza.
