'Have they sent for me?'

'Why should they send for you? You have got to go to them and see about
the field.'

Slimak groaned, but came out on to the threshing-floor. His face was
bloated, he looked ashamed of himself, and his hair was full of straw.

'Just look at him,' jeered his wife: 'his sukmana is dirty and wet, he
hasn't taken off his boots all night, and he scowls like a brigand. You
are more fit for a scarecrow in a flaxfield than for talking to the
squire. Change your clothes and go.'

She returned to the cowshed, and a weight fell off Slimak's mind that
the matter had ended there. He had expected to be jeered at till the
afternoon. He came out into the yard and looked round. The sun was
high, the ground had dried after the rain; the wind from the ravines
brought the song of birds and a damp, cheerful smell; the fields had
become green during the night. The sky looked as if it had been
freshened up, and the cottage seemed whiter.

'A nice day,' he murmured, gaining courage, and went indoors to dress.
He pulled the straw out of his hair and put on a clean shirt and new
boots. He thought they did not look polished enough, so he took a piece
of tallow and rubbed it well first over his hair, then over his boots.
Then he stood in front of the glass and smiled contentedly at the
brilliance he rejected from head to foot.

His wife came in at that moment and looked disdainfully at him.