" asked Groholsky, waking up.

"Our people . . . Vanya and Misha, they have come, they are in the
villa opposite. . . . I looked out, and there they were drinking
tea. . . . And Misha too. . . . What a little angel our Misha has
grown! If only you had seen him! Mother of God!"

"Seen whom? Why, you are. . . . Who has come? Come where?"

"Vanya and Misha. . . . I have been looking at the villa opposite,
while they were sitting drinking tea. Misha can drink his tea by
himself now. . . . Didn't you see them moving in yesterday, it was
they who arrived!"

Groholsky rubbed his forehead and turned pale.

"Arrived? Your husband?" he asked.

"Why, yes."

"What for?"

"Most likely he is going to live here. They don't know we are here.
If they did, they would have looked at our villa, but they drank
their tea and took no notice."

"Where is he now? But for God's sake do talk sense! Oh, where is
he?"

"He has gone fishing with Misha in the chaise. Did you see the
horses yesterday? Those are their horses . . . Vanya's . . . Vanya
drives with them. Do you know what, Grisha? We will have Misha to
stay with us. . . . We will, won't we? He is such a pretty boy.
Such an exquisite boy!"

Groholsky pondered, while Liza went on talking and talking.

"This is an unexpected meeting," said Groholsky, after prolonged
and, as usual, harrassing reflection. "Well, who could have expected
that we should meet here? Well. . . There it is. . . . So be it.
It seems that it is fated. I can imagine the awkwardness of his
position when he meets us."

"Shall we have Misha to stay with us?"

"Yes, we will. . . . It will be awkward meeting him. . . . Why,
what can I say to him? What can I talk of? It will be awkward for
him and awkward for me. . . . We ought not to meet. We will carry
on communications, if necessary, through the servants. . . . My
head does ache so, Lizotchka. My arms and legs too, I ache all over.
Is my head feverish?"

Liza put her hand on his forehead and found that his head was hot.

"I had dreadful dreams all night . . . I shan't get up to-day. I
shall stay in bed . . . I must take some quinine. Send me my breakfast
here, little woman."

Groholsky took quinine and lay in bed the whole day. He drank warm
water, moaned, had the sheets and pillowcase changed, whimpered,
and induced an agonising boredom in all surrounding him.

He was insupportable when he imagined he had caught a chill. Liza
had continually to in