Shubin stretched himself again.

'No, Nikolai Artemyevitch, I want to work to-morrow. Another time.'
And he walked off.

Nikolai Artemyevitch scowled, walked twice up and down the room, took
a velvet box with the dressing-case out of the bureau and looked at it
a long while, rubbing it with a silk handkerchief. Then he sat down
before a looking-glass and began carefully arranging his thick black
hair, turning his head to right and to left with a dignified
countenance, his tongue pressed into his cheek, never taking his eyes
off his parting. Some one coughed behind his back; he looked round
and saw the manservant who had brought him in his coffee.

'What do you want?' he asked him.

'Nikolai Artemyevitch,' said the man with a certain solemnity, 'you
are our master?'

'I know that; what next!'

'Nikolai Artemyevitch, graciously do not be angry with me; but I,
having been in your honour's service from a boy, am bound in dutiful
devotion to bring you----'

'Well what is it?'

The man shifted uneasily as he stood.

'You condescended to say, your honour,' he began, 'that your honour