She fancied she would fall asleep at once and sleep soundly. Her
legs and her shoulders ached painfully, her head was heavy from the
strain of talking, and she was conscious, as before, of discomfort
all over her body. Covering her head over, she lay still for three
or four minutes, then peeped out from under the bed-clothes at the
lamp before the ikon, listened to the silence, and smiled.

"It's nice, it's nice," she whispered, curling up her legs, which
felt as if they had grown longer from so much walking. "Sleep, sleep
. . . ."

Her legs would not get into a comfortable position; she felt uneasy
all over, and she turned on the other side. A big fly blew buzzing
about the bedroom and thumped against the ceiling. She could hear,
too, Grigory and Vassily stepping cautiously about the drawing-room,
putting the chairs back in their places; it seemed to Olga Mihalovna
that she could not go to sleep, nor be comfortable till those sounds
were hushed. And again she turned over on the other side impatiently.

She heard her husband's voice in the drawing-room. Some one must
be staying the night, as Pyotr Dmitritch was addressing some one
and speaking loudly:

"I don't say that Count Alexey Petrovitch is an impostor. But he
can't help seeming to be one, because all of you gentlemen attempt
to see in him something different from what he really is. His
craziness is looked upon as originality, his familiar manners as
good-nature, and his complete absence of opinions as Conservatism.
Even granted that he is a Conservative of the stamp of '84, what
after all is Conservatism?"