as to do without her powder or her curl-papers. I am for her an
indispensable, integral part of her boudoir."

Samoylenko was embarrassed.

"You are out of humour to-day, Vanya," he said. "You must have had
a bad night."

"Yes, I slept badly. . . . Altogether, I feel horribly out of sorts,
brother. My head feels empty; there's a sinking at my heart, a
weakness. . . . I must run away."

"Run where?"

"There, to the North. To the pines and the mushrooms, to people and
ideas. . . . I'd give half my life to bathe now in some little
stream in the province of Moscow or Tula; to feel chilly, you know,
and then to stroll for three hours even with the feeblest student,
and to talk and talk endlessly. . . . And the scent of the hay! Do
you remember it? And in the evening, when one walks in the garden,
sounds of the piano float from the house; one hears the train
passing. . . ."

Laevsky laughed with pleasure; tears came into his eyes, and to
cover them, without getting up, he stretched across the next table
for the matches.

"I have not been in Russia for eighteen years," said Samoylenko.
"I've forgotten what it is like. To my mind, there is not a country
more splendid than the Caucasus."