everywhere."

"It doesn't interest me to know what every fool says of me," Nadyezhda
Fyodorovna said coldly, and the amusing thought of playing with
handsome young Atchmianov suddenly lost its charm.

"We must go down," she said; "they're calling us."

The fish soup was ready by now. They were ladling it out by platefuls,
and eating it with the religious solemnity with which this is only
done at a picnic; and every one thought the fish soup very good,
and thought that at home they had never eaten anything so nice. As
is always the case at picnics, in the mass of dinner napkins,
parcels, useless greasy papers fluttering in the wind, no one knew
where was his glass or where his bread. They poured the wine on the
carpet and on their own knees, spilt the salt, while it was dark
all round them and the fire burnt more dimly, and every one was too
lazy to get up and put wood on. They all drank wine, and even gave
Kostya and Katya half a glass each. Nadyezhda Fyodorovna drank one
glass and then another, got a little drunk and forgot about Kirilin.

"A splendid picnic, an enchanting evening," said Laevsky, growing
lively with the wine. "But I should prefer a fine winter to all
this. 'His beaver collar is silver with hoar-frost.'

"Every one to his taste," observed Von Koren.

Laevsky felt uncomfortable; the heat of the campfire was beating
upon his back, and the hatred of Von Koren upon his breast and face:
this hatred on the part of a decent, clever man, a feeling in which