Mentone, where he had lived with his father when he was seven years
old; he thought of Biarritz and two little English girls with whom
he ran about on the sand. . . . He tried to recall to his memory
the colour of the sky, the sea, the height of the waves, and his
mood at the time, but he could not succeed. The English girls flitted
before his imagination as though they were living; all the rest was
a medley of images that floated away in confusion. . . .

"No; it's cold here," thought Volodya. He got up, put on his overcoat,
and went into the "general room."

There they were drinking tea. There were three people at the samovar:
_maman_; an old lady with tortoiseshell pince-nez, who gave music
lessons; and Avgustin Mihalitch, an elderly and very stout Frenchman,
who was employed at a perfumery factory.

"I have had no dinner to-day," said _maman_. "I ought to send the
maid to buy some bread."

"Dunyasha!" shouted the Frenchman.

It appeared that the maid had been sent out somewhere by the lady
of the house.

"Oh, that's of no consequence," said the Frenchman, with a broad
smile. "I will go for some bread myself at once. Oh, it's nothing."

He laid his strong, pungent cigar in a conspicuous place, put on
his hat and went out. After he had gone away _maman_ began telling
the music teacher how she had been staying at the Shumihins', and