t a word.

All the lamps and candles were lighted in his honour in the
drawing-room and the dining-room. He sat down at the piano and began
turning over the music. Then he looked at the pictures on the walls,
at the portraits. The pictures, oil-paintings in gold frames, were
views of the Crimea--a stormy sea with a ship, a Catholic monk
with a wineglass; they were all dull, smooth daubs, with no trace
of talent in them. There was not a single good-looking face among
the portraits, nothing but broad cheekbones and astonished-looking
eyes. Lyalikov, Liza's father, had a low forehead and a self-satisfied
expression; his uniform sat like a sack on his bulky plebeian figure;
on his breast was a medal and a Red Cross Badge. There was little
sign of culture, and the luxury was senseless and haphazard, and
was as ill fitting as that uniform. The floors irritated him with
their brilliant polish, the lustres on the chandelier irritated
him, and he was reminded for some reason of the story of the merchant
who used to go to the baths with a medal on his neck. . . .

He heard a whispering in the entry; some one was softly snoring.
And suddenly from outside came harsh, abrupt, metallic sounds, such
as Korolyov had never heard before, and which he did not understand
now; they roused strange, unpleasant echoes in his soul.

"I believe nothing would induce me to remain here to live . . ."
he thought, and went back to the music-books again.

"Doctor, please come to supper!" the governess called him in a low
voice.

He went into supper. The table was large and laid with a vast number
of dishes and wines, but there were only two to supper: himself and
Christina Dmitryevna. She drank Madeira, ate rapidly, and talked,
looking at him through her pince-nez:

"Our workpeople are very contented. We have performances at the
factory every winter; the workpeople act themselves. They have
lectures with a magic lantern, a splendid tea-room, and everything
they want. They are very much attached to us, and when they heard
that Lizanka was worse they had a service sung for her. Though they
have no education, they have their feelings, too."

"It looks as though you have no man in the house at all," said
Korolyov.

"Not one. Pyotr Nikanoritch died a year and a half ago, and left
us alone. And so there are the three of us. In the summer we live
here, and in winter we live in Moscow, in Polianka. I have been
living with them for eleven years--as