There was a hush and a solemnity about the proceedings.  Vera Michailovna was very busy in the kitchen, her face flushed and her sleeves rolled up; Sacha, the servant, malevolently assisting her and scolding continually the stout and agitated country girl who had been called in for the occasion.

“All goes well,” Vera smilingly assured me.  “Half-past six it is—­don’t be late.”

“I will be in time,” I said.

“Do you know, I’ve asked your English friend.  The big one.”

“Lawrence?...  Is he coming?”

“Yes.  At least I understood so on the telephone, but he sounded confused.  Do you think he will want to come?”

“I’m sure he will,” I answered.

“Afterwards I wasn’t sure.  I thought he might think it impertinent when we know him so little.  But he could easily have said if he didn’t want to come, couldn’t he?”

There seemed to me something unusual in the way that she asked me these questions.  She did not usually care whether people were offended or no.  She had not time to consider that, and in any case she despised people who took offence easily.

I would perhaps have said something, but the country girl dropped a plate and Sacha leapt upon the opportunity.  “Drunk!...  What did I say, having such a girl?  Is it not better to do things for yourself?  But no—­of course no one cares for my advice, as though last year the same thing....”  And so on.

I left them and went home to prepare for the feast.

I returned punctually at half-past six and found every one there.  Many of the ladies had gone, but the aunts remained, and there were other uncles and some cousins.  We must have been in all between twenty and thirty people.  The table was now magnificently spread.  There was a fine glittering Father Christmas in the middle, a Father Christmas of German make, I am afraid.  Ribbons and frosted strips of coloured paper ran in lines up and down the cloth.  The “Zakuska” were on a side-table near the door—­herrings and ham and smoked fish and radishes and mushrooms and tongue and caviare and, most unusual of all in those days, a decanter of vodka.

No one had begun yet; every one stood about, a little uneasy and awkward, with continuous glances flung at the “Zakuska” table.  Of the company Markovitch first caught my eye.  I had never seen him so clean and smart before.  His high, piercing collar was of course the first thing that one saw; then one perceived that his hair was brushed, his beard trimmed, and that he wore a very decent suit of rather shiny black.  This washing and scouring of him gave him a curiously subdued and imprisoned air; I felt sympathetic towards him; I could see that he was anxious to please, happy at the prospect of being a successful host, and, to-night, most desperately in love with his wife.  That last stood out and beyond all else.  His eyes continually sought her face; he had the eyes of a dog watching and waiting for its master’s appreciative word.