Krasnovsky in person. But first ask the porter whether her husband
--that is, Mr. Krasnovsky--has returned yet. If he has returned,
don't deliver the letter, but come back. Wait a minute! . . . If
she asks whether I have any one here, tell her that there have been
two gentlemen here since eight o'clock, writing something."

I drove to Znamensky Street. The porter told me that Mr. Krasnovsky
had not yet come in, and I made my way up to the third storey. The
door was opened by a tall, stout, drab-coloured flunkey with black
whiskers, who in a sleepy, churlish, and apathetic voice, such as
only flunkeys use in addressing other flunkeys, asked me what I
wanted. Before I had time to answer, a lady dressed in black came
hurriedly into the hall. She screwed up her eyes and looked at me.

"Is Zinaida Fyodorovna at home?" I asked.

"That is me," said the lady.

"A letter from Georgy Ivanitch."

She tore the letter open impatiently, and holding it in both hands,
so that I saw her sparkling diamond rings, she began reading. I
made out a pale face with soft lines, a prominent chin, and long
dark lashes. From her appearance I should not have judged the lady
to be more than five and twenty.

"Give him my thanks and my greetings," she said when she had finished
the letter. "Is there any one with Georgy Ivanitch?" she asked
softly, joyfully, and as though ashamed of her mistrust.