"No, the air is fresh," I answered.

"I tell you, there's a bad smell," he answered irritably.

"I open the movable panes every day."

"Don't argue, blockhead!" he shouted.

I was offended, and was on the point of answering, and goodness
knows how it would have ended if Polya, who knew her master better
than I did, had not intervened.

"There really is a disagreeable smell," she said, raising her
eyebrows. "What can it be from? Stepan, open the pane in the
drawing-room, and light the fire."

With much bustle and many exclamations, she went through all the
rooms, rustling her skirts and squeezing the sprayer with a hissing
sound. And Orlov was still out of humour; he was obviously restraining
himself not to vent his ill-temper aloud. He was sitting at the
table and rapidly writing a letter. After writing a few lines he
snorted angrily and tore it up, then he began writing again.

"Damn them all!" he muttered. "They expect me to have an abnormal
memory!"

At last the letter was written; he got up from the table and said,
turning to me:

"Go to Znamensky Street and deliver this letter to Zinaida Fyodorovna