the room, with a small sharp-featured face, and bright little eyes. He
was beaming all over, as though he had just won a fortune or heard a
most delightful piece of news.

Insarov got up from his seat

'You don't recognise me,' began the stranger, going up to him with an
easy air, and bowing politely to Elena, 'Lupoyarov, do you remember,
we met at Moscow at the E----'s.'

'Yes, at the E----'s,' replied Insarov.

'To be sure, to be sure! I beg you to present me to your wife. Madam,
I have always had the profoundest respect for Dmitri Vassilyevitch'
(he corrected himself)--'for Nikanor Vassilyevitch, and am very happy
to have the pleasure at last of making your acquaintance. Fancy,' he
continued, turning to Insarov, 'I only heard yesterday evening that
you were here. I am staying at this hotel too. What a city! Venice is
poetry--that's the only word for it! But one thing's really awful:
the cursed Austrians meeting one at every turn! ah, these Austrians!
By the way, have you heard, there's been a decisive battle on the
Danube: three hundred Turkish officers killed, Silistria taken;
Servia has declared its independence. You, as a patriot, ought to be
in transports, oughtn't you? Even my Slavonic blood's positively on
fire! I advise you to be more careful, though; I'm convinced
there's a watch kept on you. The spies here are something awful! A
suspicious-looking man came up to me yesterday and asked: "Are you a
Russian?" I told him I was a Dane. But you seem unwell, dear Nikanor
Vassilyevitch. You ought to see a doctor; madam, you ought to make
your husband see a doctor. Yesterday I ran through the palaces and