nnamon and clove in the air, the door opened again, and
there came into the pavilion a beardless young policeman whose nose
was crimson, and who was covered all over with frost; he went up
to the governor, and, saluting, said: "Her Excellency told me to
inform you that she has gone home."

Looking at the way the policeman put his stiff, frozen fingers to
his cap, looking at his nose, his lustreless eyes, and his hood
covered with white frost near the mouth, they all for some reason
felt that this policeman's heart must be aching, that his stomach
must feel pinched, and his soul numb. . . .

"I say," said the governor hesitatingly, "have a drink of mulled
wine!"

"It's all right . . . it's all right! Drink it up!" the mayor urged
him, gesticulating; "don't be shy!"

The policeman took the glass in both hands, moved aside, and, trying
to drink without making any sound, began discreetly sipping from
the glass. He drank and was overwhelmed with embarrassment while
the old men looked at him in silence, and they all fancied that the
pain was leaving the young policeman's heart, and that his soul was
thawing. The governor heaved a sigh.

"It's time we were at home," he said, getting up. "Good-bye! I say,"
he added, addressing the policeman, "tell the musicians there to
. . . leave off playing, and ask Pavel Semyonovitch from me to see
they are given . . . beer or vodka."

The governor and the bishop said good-bye to the mayor and went out
of the pavilion.

Yegor Ivanitch attacked the mulled wine, and before the policeman
had finished his glass succeeded in telling him a great many
interesting things. He could not be silent.

A SLANDER

SERGE KAPITONICH AHINEEV, the writing master, was marrying his
daughter to the teacher of history and geography. The wedding
festivities were going off most successfully. In the drawing room
there was singing, playing, and dancing. Waiters hired from the
club were flitting distractedly about the rooms, dressed in black
swallow-tails and dirty white ties. There was a continual hubbub
and din of conversation. Sitting side by side on the sofa, the
teacher of mathematics, Tarantulov, the French teacher, Pasdequoi,
and the junior assessor of taxes, Mzda, were talking hurriedly and
interrupting one another as they described to the guests cases of
persons being buried alive, and gave their opinions on spiritualism.
None of them believed in spiritualism, but all admitted that there
were