"You go now by Efremovshtchina," he directed the coachman; "it's
nearer through Mankino, but the road is worse that way. You might
have an upset. . . . Good-bye, my charmer. _Mille_ compliments to
your artist!"

"Good-bye, Olga Mihalovna, darling! Go indoors, or you will catch
cold! It's damp!"

"Wo-o-o! you rascal!"

"What horses have you got here?" Pyotr Dmitritch asked.

"They were bought from Haidorov, in Lent," answered the coachman.

"Capital horses. . . ."

And Pyotr Dmitritch patted the trace horse on the haunch.

"Well, you can start! God give you good luck!"

The last visitor was gone at last; the red circle on the road
quivered, moved aside, contracted and went out, as Vassily carried
away the lamp from the entrance. On previous occasions when they
had seen off their visitors, Pyotr Dmitritch and Olga Mihalovna had
begun dancing about the drawing-room, facing each other, clapping
their hands and singing: "They've gone! They've gone!" But now Olga
Mihalovna was not equal to that. She went to her bedroom, undressed,
and got into bed.