inking; but instead of the little creature there rose up in her
imagination the figures of the grown-up people whom she had just
left. She felt dreadfully uneasy that she, the hostess, had deserted
her guests, and she remembered how her husband, Pyotr Dmitritch,
and her uncle, Nikolay Nikolaitch, had argued at dinner about trial
by jury, about the press, and about the higher education of women.
Her husband, as usual, argued in order to show off his Conservative
ideas before his visitors--and still more in order to disagree
with her uncle, whom he disliked. Her uncle contradicted him and
wrangled over every word he uttered, so as to show the company that
he, Uncle Nikolay Nikolaitch, still retained his youthful freshness
of spirit and free-thinking in spite of his fifty-nine years. And
towards the end of dinner even Olga Mihalovna herself could not
resist taking part and unskilfully attempting to defend university
education for women--not that that education stood in need of her
defence, but simply because she wanted to annoy her husband, who
to her mind was unfair. The guests were wearied by this discussion,
but they all thought it necessary to take part in it, and talked a
great deal, although none of them took any interest in trial by
jury or the higher education of women. . . .

Olga Mihalovna was sitting on the nearest side of the hurdle near
the shanty. The sun was hidden behind the clouds. The trees and the
air were overcast as before rain, but in spite of that it was hot
and stifling. The hay cut under the trees on the previous day was
lying ungathered, looking melancholy, with here and there a patch
of colour from the faded flowers, and from it came a heavy, sickly
scent. It was still. The other side of the hurdle there was a
monotonous hum of bees. . . .

Suddenly she heard footsteps and voices; some one was coming along
the path towards the beehouse.

"How stifling it is!" said a feminine voice. "What do you think--
is it going to rain, or not?"

"It is going to rain, my charmer, but not before night," a very
familiar male voice answered languidly. "There will be a good rain."

Olga Mihalovna calculated that if she made haste to hide in the
shanty they would pass by without seeing her, and she would not
have to talk and to force herself to smile. She picked up her skirts,
bent down and crept into the shanty. At once she felt upon her face,
her neck, her arms, the hot air as heavy as steam. If it had not