“By the way, I read about those Tatar guides there, in some magazine while you were away . . . . such abominable stories!  Tell me is there really anything out of the way about them?”

Natalya Mihalovna made a little disdainful grimace and shook her head.

“Just ordinary Tatars, nothing special . . .” she said, “though indeed I only had a glimpse of them in the distance.  They were pointed out to me, but I did not take much notice of them.  You know, hubby, I always had a prejudice against all such Circassians, Greeks . . .  Moors!”

“They are said to be terrible Don Juans.”

“Perhaps!  There are shameless creatures who . . . .”

Natalya Mihalovna suddenly jumped up from her chair, as though she had thought of something dreadful; for half a minute she looked with frightened eyes at her husband and said, accentuating each word: 

“Vassitchka, I say, the im-mo-ral women there are in the world!  Ah, how immoral!  And it’s not as though they were working-class or middle-class people, but aristocratic ladies, priding themselves on their bon-ton! It was simply awful, I could not believe my own eyes!  I shall remember it as long as I live!  To think that people can forget themselves to such a point as . . . ach, Vassitchka, I don’t like to speak of it!  Take my companion, Yulia Petrovna, for example. . . .  Such a good husband, two children . . . she moves in a decent circle, always poses as a saint—­and all at once, would you believe it. . . .  Only, hubby, of course this is entre nous. . . .  Give me your word of honour you won’t tell a soul?”

“What next!  Of course I won’t tell.”

“Honour bright?  Mind now!  I trust you. . . .”

The little lady put down her fork, assumed a mysterious air, and whispered: 

“Imagine a thing like this. . . .  That Yulia Petrovna rode up into the mountains . . . .  It was glorious weather!  She rode on ahead with her guide, I was a little behind.  We had ridden two or three miles, all at once, only fancy, Vassitchka, Yulia cried out and clutched at her bosom.  Her Tatar put his arm round her waist or she would have fallen off the saddle. . . .  I rode up to her with my guide. . . .  ‘What is it?  What is the matter?’ ‘Oh,’ she cried, ’I am dying!  I feel faint!  I can’t go any further’ Fancy my alarm!  ‘Let us go back then,’ I said.  ‘No, Natalie,’ she said, ’I can’t go back!  I shall die of pain if I move another step!  I have spasms.’  And she prayed and besought my Suleiman and me to ride back to the town and fetch her some of her drops which always do her good.”

“Stay. . . .  I don’t quite understand you,” muttered the husband, scratching his forehead.  “You said just now that you had only seen those Tatars from a distance, and now you are talking of some Suleiman.”

“There, you are finding fault again,” the lady pouted, not in the least disconcerted.  “I can’t endure suspiciousness!  I can’t endure it!  It’s stupid, stupid!”