"Not badsome . . ." Ivan Petrovitch said softly.

And one of the visitors hearing, with his thoughts far away, said
hardly audibly:

"Yes . . . truly. . . ."

One hour passed, another. In the town gardens close by a band was
playing and a chorus was singing. When Vera Iosifovna shut her
manuscript book, the company was silent for five minutes, listening
to "Lutchina" being sung by the chorus, and the song gave what was
not in the novel and is in real life.

"Do you publish your stories in magazines?" Startsev asked Vera
Iosifovna.

"No," she answered. "I never publish. I write it and put it away
in my cupboard. Why publish?" she explained. "We have enough to
live on."

And for some reason every one sighed.

"And now, Kitten, you play something," Ivan Petrovitch said to his
daughter.

The lid of the piano was raised and the music lying ready was opened.
Ekaterina Ivanovna sat down and banged on the piano with both hands,
and then banged again with all her might, and then again and again;
her shoulders and bosom shook. She obstinately banged on the same