The local inhabitants sipped their glasses decorously and listened.  The well-pleased host, not knowing how to make enough of his cultured and interesting visitor, presented to him a distant relative who had just arrived, one Pavel Ignatyevitch Klimov, a bulky gentleman about forty, wearing a long frock-coat and very full trousers.

“You ought to know 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 this?” Klimov went on, throwing up his hands.  “I know the girl, and . . . and . . .  I am surprised. . . .”