of him, and the gist of their talks on the journey.

"A clever chap!" he repeated, "and well educated, too. It's true
he's a revolutionist, but what does it matter? These people are
ambitious, at any rate. As for Kolia, he is too young to be
spoiled by any of this nonsense."

Valentina Mihailovna listened to her husband affectionately; an
amused smile played on her lips, as if he were telling her of
some naughty amusing prank. It was pleasant to her to think that
her seigneur a maitre, such a respectable man, of important
position, could be as mischievous as a boy of twenty. Standing
before the looking-glass in a snow-white shirt and blue silk
braces, Sipiagin was brushing his hair in the English fashion
with two brushes, while Valentina Mihailovna, her feet tucked
under her, was sitting on a narrow Turkish couch, telling him
various news about the house, the paper mill, which, alas, was
not going well, as was to be expected; about the possibilities of
changing the cook, about the church, of which the plaster had
come off; about Mariana, Kollomietzev. . .

Between husband and wife there existed the fullest confidence and
good understanding; they certainly lived in "love and harmony,"
as people used to say in olden days. When Sipiagin, after
finishing his toilet, asked chivalrously for his wife's hand and
she gave him both, and watched him with an affectionate pride as
he kissed them in turn, the feeling expressed in their faces was
good and true, although in her it shone out of a pair of eyes
worthy of Raphael, and in him out of the ordinary eyes of a mere
official.