who was
expecting him, of how people could live all their lives in the
country without feeling bored. Standing at the window, for a long
time he stared at the trees, smoked three cigarettes one after
another, and suddenly turned to his cousin.

"I have a favour to ask you, Alyosha," he said. "Let me have a
saddle-horse for the day. . . ."

Kryukov looked searchingly at him and continued his writing with a
frown.

"You will, then?" asked the lieutenant.

Kryukov looked at him again, then deliberately drew out a drawer
in the table, and taking out a thick roll of notes, gave it to his
cousin.

"Here's five thousand . . ." he said. "Though it's not my money,
yet, God bless you, it's all the same. I advise you to send for
post-horses at once and go away. Yes, really!"

The lieutenant in his turn looked searchingly at Kryukov and laughed.

"You've guessed right, Alyosha," he said, reddening. "It was to her
I meant to ride. Yesterday evening when the washerwoman gave me
that damned tunic, the one I was wearing then, and it smelt of
jasmine, why . . . I felt I must go!"

"You must go away."

"Yes, certainly. And my furlough's just over. I really will go
to-day! Yes, by Jove! However long one stays, one has to go in the
end. . . . I'm going!"

The post-horses were brought after dinner the same day; the lieutenant
said good-bye to the Kryukovs and set off, followed by their good
wishes.

Another week passed. It was a dull but hot and heavy day. From early
morning Kryukov walked aimlessly about the house, looking out of
window, or turning over the leaves of albums, though he was sick
of the sight of them already. When he came across his wife or
children, he began grumbling crossly. It seemed to him, for some
reason that day, that his children's manners were revolting, that
his wife did not know how to look after the servants, that their
expenditure was quite disproportionate to their income. All this
meant that "the master" was out of humour.

After dinner, Kryukov, feeling dissatisfied with the soup and the
roast meat he had eaten, ordered out his racing droshky. He drove
slowly out of the courtyard, drove at a walking pace for a quarter
of a mile, and stopped.

"Shall I . . . drive to her . . . that devil?" he thought, looking
at the leaden sky.

And Kryukov positively laughed, as though it were the first time
that day he had asked himself that question. At once the load of
boredom was lifted from his hea