is not agreeable to you, I can go back."

"Oh, Fyodor Lukitch, you must not talk like that! Please come in.
Why, the function is really in your honour, not ours. And we are
delighted to see you. Of course we are! . . ."

Within, everything was ready for the banquet. In the big dining-room
adorned with German oleographs and smelling of geraniums and varnish
there were two tables, a larger one for the dinner and a smaller
one for the hors-d'oeuvres. The hot light of midday faintly percolated
through the lowered blinds. . . . The twilight of the room, the
Swiss views on the blinds, the geraniums, the thin slices of sausage
on the plates, all had a naïve, girlishly-sentimental air, and it
was all in keeping with the master of the house, a good-natured
little German with a round little stomach and affectionate, oily
little eyes. Adolf Andreyitch Bruni (that was his name) was bustling
round the table of hors-d'oeuvres as zealously as though it were a
house on fire, filling up the wine-glasses, loading the plates, and
trying in every way to please, to amuse, and to show his friendly
feelings. He clapped people on the shoulder, looked into their eyes,
chuckled, rubbed his hands, in fact was as ingratiating as a friendly
dog.

"Whom do I behold? Fyodor Lukitch!" he said in a jerky voice, on
seeing Sysoev. "How delightful! You have come in spite of your
illness. Gentlemen, let me congratulate you, Fyodor Lukitch has
come!"

The school-teachers were already crowding round the table and eating
the hors-d'oeuvres. Sysoev frowned; he was displeased that his