each other," said Zybaev as he presented Klimov;
"he loves theatres, and at one time used to act himself. He has an
estate in the Tula province."

Podzharov and Klimov got into conversation. It appeared, to the
great satisfaction of both, that the Tula landowner lived in the
very town in which the _jeune premier_ had acted for two seasons
in succession. Enquiries followed about the town, about common
acquaintances, and about the theatre. . . .

"Do you know, I like that town awfully," said the jeune premier,
displaying his red socks. "What streets, what a charming park, and
what society! Delightful society!"

"Yes, delightful society," the landowner assented.

"A commercial town, but extremely cultured. . . . For instance,
er-er-er . . . the head master of the high school, the public
prosecutor . . . the officers. . . . The police captain, too, was
not bad, a man, as the French say, enchante, and the women, Allah,
what women!"

"Yes, the women . . . certainly. . . ."

"Perhaps I am partial; the fact is that in your town, I don't know
why, I was devilishly lucky with the fair sex! I could write a dozen
novels. To take this episode, for instance. . . . I was staying in
Yegoryevsky Street, in the very house where the Treasury is. . . ."

"The red house without stucco?"

"Yes, yes . . . without stucco. . . . Close by, as I remember now,
lived a local beauty, Varenka. . . ."

"Not Varvara Nikolayevna?" asked Klimov, and he beamed with
satisfaction. "She really is a beauty . . . the most beautiful girl
in the town."

"The most beautiful girl in the town! A classic profile, great black
eyes . . . . and hair to her waist! She saw me in 'Hamlet,' she
wrote me a letter _a la_ Pushkin's 'Tatyana.' . . . I answered, as
you may guess. . . ."

Podzharov looked round, and having satisfied himself that there
were no ladies in the room, rolled his eyes, smiled mournfully, and
heaved a sigh.

"I came home one evening after a performance," he whispered, "and
there she was, sitting on my sofa. There followed tears, protestations
of love, kisses. . . . Oh, that was a marvellous, that was a divine
night! Our romance lasted two months, but that night was never
repeated. It was a night, parole d'honneur!"

"Excuse me, what's that?" muttered Klimov, turning crimson and
gazing open-eyed at the actor. "I know Varvara Nikolayevna well:
she's my niece."

Podzharov was embarrassed, and he, too, opened his eyes wide.

"How's th