ladies and Mishutka were standing
below, under the verandah. The ladies were laughing, and loudly
talking French.

"French women," observed Groholsky. "The one nearest us isn't at
all bad-looking. Lively damsels, but that's no matter. There are
good women to be found even among such. . . . But they really do
go too far."

What was funny was that Ivan Petrovitch bent across the verandah,
and stretching with his long arms, put them round the shoulders of
one of the French girls, lifted her in the air, and set her giggling
on the verandah. After lifting up both ladies on to the verandah,
he lifted up Mishutka too. The ladies ran down and the proceedings
were repeated.

"Powerful muscles, I must say," muttered Groholsky looking at this
scene. The operation was repeated some six times, the ladies were
so amiable as to show no embarrassment whatever when the boisterous
wind disposed of their inflated skirts as it willed while they were
being lifted. Groholsky dropped his eyes in a shamefaced way when
the ladies flung their legs over the parapet as they reached the
verandah. But Liza watched and laughed! What did she care? It was
not a case of men misbehaving themselves, which would have put her,
as a woman, to shame, but of ladies.

In the evening, Ivan Petrovitch flew over, and with some embarrassment
announced that he was now a man with a household to look after . . . .

"You mustn't imagine they are just anybody," he said. "It is true
they are French. They shout at the top of their voices, and drink
. . . but we all know! The French are brought up to be like that!
It can't be helped. . . . The prince," Ivan Petrovitch added, "let
me have them almost for nothing. . . . He said: 'take them, take
them. . . .' I must introduce you to the prince sometime. A man of
culture! He's for ever writing, writing. . . . And do you know what
their names are? One is Fanny, the other Isabella. . . . There's
Europe, ha-ha-ha! . . . The west! Good-bye!"

Ivan Petrovitch left Liza and Groholsky in peace, and devoted himself
to his ladies. All day long sound of talk, laughter, and the clatter
of crockery came from his villa. . . . The lights were not put out
till far into the night. . . . Groholsky was in bliss. . . . At
last, after a prolonged interval of agony, he felt happy and at
peace again. Ivan Petrovitch with his two ladies had no such happiness
as he had with one. But alas, destiny has no heart. She plays with
the Groholskys,