he frost were
struggling together with a tingling sensation in their bodies.

"Well, Christmas will soon be here," the father said in a pleasant
sing-song voice, rolling a cigarette of dark reddish tobacco. "It
doesn't seem long since the summer, when mamma was crying at your
going . . . and here you are back again. . . . Time flies, my boy.
Before you have time to cry out, old age is upon you. Mr. Lentilov,
take some more, please help yourself! We don't stand on ceremony!"

Volodya's three sisters, Katya, Sonya, and Masha (the eldest was
eleven), sat at the table and never took their eyes off the newcomer.

Lentilov was of the same height and age as Volodya, but not as
round-faced and fair-skinned. He was thin, dark, and freckled; his
hair stood up like a brush, his eyes were small, and his lips were
thick. He was, in fact, distinctly ugly, and if he had not been
wearing the school uniform, he might have been taken for the son
of a cook. He seemed morose, did not speak, and never once smiled.
The little girls, staring at him, immediately came to the conclusion
that he must be a very clever and learned person. He seemed to be
thinking about something all the time, and was so absorbed in his
own thoughts, that, whenever he was spoken to, he started, threw
his head back, and asked to have the question repeated.

The little girls noticed that Volodya, who had always been so merry
and talkative, also said very little, did not smile at all, and
hardly seemed to be glad to be home. All the time they were at tea
he only once addressed his sisters, and then he said something so
strange. He pointed to the samovar and said:

"In California they don't drink tea, but gin."

He, too, seemed absorbed in his own thoughts, and, to judge by the
looks that passed between him and his friend Lentilov, their thoughts
were the same.

After tea, they all went into the nursery. The girls and their
father took up the work that had been interrupted by the arrival
of the boys. They were making flowers and frills for the Christmas
tree out of paper of different colours. It was an attractive and
noisy occupation. Every fresh flower was greeted by the little girls
with shrieks of delight, even of awe, as though the flower had
dropped straight from heaven; their father was in ecstasies too,
and every now and then he threw the scissors on the floor, in
vexation at their bluntness. Their mother kept running into the
nursery with an anxious fac