straight at them, with his eyes
starting out of his head.

"Go in, Liza, go in," Groholsky whispered. "I said we must have
dinner indoors! What a girl you are, really. . . ."

Bugrov stared and stared, and suddenly began shouting. Groholsky
looked at him and saw a face full of astonishment. . . .

"Is that you ?" bawled Ivan Petrovitch, "you! Are you here too?"

Groholsky passed his fingers from one shoulder to another, as though
to say, "My chest is weak, and so I can't shout across such a
distance." Liza's heart began throbbing, and everything turned round
before her eyes. Bugrov ran from his verandah, ran across the road,
and a few seconds later was standing under the verandah on which
Groholsky and Liza were dining. Alas for the partridges!

"How are you?" he began, flushing crimson, and stuffing his big
hands in his pockets. "Are you here? Are you here too?"

"Yes, we are here too. . . ."

"How did you get here?"

"Why, how did you?"

"I? It's a long story, a regular romance, my good friend! But don't
put yourselves out--eat your dinner! I've been living, you know,
ever since then . . . in the Oryol province. I rented an estate. A
splendid estate! But do eat your dinner! I stayed there from the
end of May, but now I have given it up. . . . It was cold there,
and--well, the doctor advised me to go to the Crimea. . . ."

"Are you ill, then?" inquired Groholsky.

"Oh, well. . . . There always seems, as it were . . . something
gurgling here. . . ."

And at the word "here" Ivan Petrovitch passed his open hand from
his neck down to the middle of his stomach.

"So you are here too. . . . Yes . . . that's very pleasant. Have
you been here long?"

"Since July."

"Oh, and you, Liza, how are you? Quite well?"

"Quite well," answered Liza, and was embarrassed.

"You miss Mishutka, I'll be bound. Eh? Well, he's here with me. . . .
I'll send him over to you directly with Nikifor. This is very
nice. Well, good-bye! I have to go off directly. . . . I made the
acquaintance of Prince Ter-Haimazov yesterday; delightful man,
though he is an Armenian. So he has a croquet party to-day; we are
going to play croquet. . . . Good-bye! The carriage is waiting
. . . ."

Ivan Petrovitch whirled round, tossed his head, and, waving adieu
to them, ran home.

"Unhappy man," said Groholsky, heaving a deep sigh as he watched
him go off.

"In what way is he unhappy?" asked Liza.

"To see you and not have the right to cal