'Why impossible? Clara ... Clara Militch; it's not her real name ... but
that's what she's called. She's going to sing a song of Glinka's ... and of
Tchaykovsky's; and then she'll recite the letter from _Yevgeny Oniegin_.
Well; will you take a ticket?'

'And when will it be?'

'To-morrow ... to-morrow, at half-past one, in a private drawing-room, in
Ostozhonka.... I will come for you. A five-rouble ticket?... Here it is ...
no, that's a three-rouble one. Here ... and here's the programme.... I'm
one of the stewards.'

Aratov sank into thought. Platonida Ivanovna came in at that instant, and
glancing at his face, was in a flutter of agitation at once. 'Yasha,' she
cried, 'what's the matter with you? Why are you so upset? Fyodor Fedoritch,
what is it you've been telling him?'

Aratov did not let his friend answer his aunt's question, but hurriedly
snatching the ticket held out to him, told Platonida Ivanovna to give
Kupfer five roubles at once.

She blinked in amazement.... However, she handed Kupfer the money in
silence. Her darling Yasha had ejaculated his commands in a very imperative
manner.

'I tell you, a wonder of wonders!' cried Kupfer, hurrying to the door.
'Wait till to-morrow.'

'Has she black eyes?' Aratov called after him.