They all wandered off in different directions, and no one was left
but Kirilin, Atchmianov, and Nikodim Alexandritch. Kerbalay brought
chairs, spread a rug on the ground, and set a few bottles of wine.

The police captain, Kirilin, a tall, good-looking man, who in all
weathers wore his great-coat over his tunic, with his haughty
deportment, stately carriage, and thick, rather hoarse voice, looked
like a young provincial chief of police; his expression was mournful
and sleepy, as though he had just been waked against his will.

"What have you brought this for, you brute?" he asked Kerbalay,
deliberately articulating each word. "I ordered you to give us
_kvarel_, and what have you brought, you ugly Tatar? Eh? What?"

"We have plenty of wine of our own, Yegor Alekseitch," Nikodim
Alexandritch observed, timidly and politely.

"What? But I want us to have my wine, too; I'm taking part in the
picnic and I imagine I have full right to contribute my share. I
im-ma-gine so! Bring ten bottles of _kvarel_."

"Why so many?" asked Nikodim Alexandritch, in wonder, knowing Kirilin
had no money.

"Twenty bottles! Thirty!" shouted Kirilin.

"Never mind, let him," Atchmianov whispered to Nikodim Alexandritch;
"I'll pay."

Nadyezhda Fyodorovna was in a light-hearted, mischievous mood; she