g time in his
pocket and looks for his handkerchief.

"Oh, my handkerchief must be in my greatcoat," he recalls in a loud
voice, "and here I am looking for it," and he goes into the vestibule
where the fur coats are hanging up.

He returns from the vestibule with glistening eyes, and at once
attacks the pie with relish.

"I say, it's horrid munching away with a dry mouth, isn't it?" he
whispers to Father Yevmeny. "Go into the vestibule, Father. There's
a bottle there in my fur coat. . . . Only mind you are careful;
don't make a clatter with the bottle."

Father Yevmeny recollects that he has some direction to give to
Luka, and trips off to the vestibule.

"Father, a couple of words in confidence," says Dvornyagin, overtaking
him.

"You should see the fur coat I've bought myself, gentlemen," Hrumov
boasts. "It's worth a thousand, and I gave . . . you won't believe
it . . . two hundred and fifty! Not a farthing more."

At any other time the guests would have greeted this information
with indifference, but now they display surprise and incredulity.
In the end they all troop out into the vestibule to look at the fur
coat, and go on looking at it till the doctor's man Mikeshka carries
five empty bottles out on the sly. When the steamed sturgeon is
served, Marfutkin remembers that he has left his cigar case in his
sledge and goes to the stable. That he may not be lonely on this
expedition, he takes with him the deacon, who appropriately feels
it necessary to have a look at his horse. . . .

On the evening of the same day, Lyubov Petrovna is sitting in her
study, writing a letter to an old friend in Petersburg:

"To-day, as in past years," she writes among other things, "I had
a memorial service for my dear husband. All my neighbours came to
the service. They are a simple, rough set, but what hearts! I gave
them a splendid lunch, but of course, as in previous years, without
a drop of alcoholic liquor. Ever since he died from excessive
drinking I have vowed to establish temperance in this district and
thereby to expiate his sins. I have begun the campaign for temperance
at my own house. Father Yevmeny is delighted with my efforts, and
helps me both in word and deed. Oh, _ma chere_, if you knew how
fond my bears are of me! The president of the Zemstvo, Marfutkin,
kissed my hand after lunch, held it a long while to his lips, and,
wagging his head in an absurd way, burst into tears: so much feeling
but no words! Fathe