Her uncle pulled a very long face, then looked at her searchingly and twisted his lips into a mocking smile.

“So that’s how it is,” he piped in a voice like an old woman’s.  “I beg your pardon!” he said, and made a ceremonious bow.  “If you have fallen under his influence yourself, and have abandoned your convictions, you should have said so before.  I beg your pardon!”

“Yes, I have abandoned my convictions,” she cried.  “There; make the most of it!”

“I beg your pardon!”

Her uncle for the last time made her a ceremonious bow, a little on one side, and, shrinking into himself, made a scrape with his foot and walked back.

“Idiot!” thought Olga Mihalovna.  “I hope he will go home.”

She found the ladies and the young people among the raspberries in the kitchen garden.  Some were eating raspberries; others, tired of eating raspberries, were strolling about the strawberry beds or foraging among the sugar-peas.  A little on one side of the raspberry bed, near a branching appletree propped up by posts which had been pulled out of an old fence, Pyotr Dmitritch was mowing the grass.  His hair was falling over his forehead, his cravat was untied.  His watch-chain was hanging loose.  Every step and every swing of the scythe showed skill and the possession of immense physical strength.  Near him were standing Lubotchka and the daughters of a neighbour, Colonel Bukryeev—­two anaemic and unhealthily stout fair girls, Natalya and Valentina, or, as they were always called, Nata and Vata, both wearing white frocks and strikingly like each other.  Pyotr Dmitritch was teaching them to mow.

“It’s very simple,” he said.  “You have only to know how to hold the scythe and not to get too hot over it—­that is, not to use more force than is necessary!  Like this. . . .  Wouldn’t you like to try?” he said, offering the scythe to Lubotchka.  “Come!”

Lubotchka took the scythe clumsily, blushed crimson, and laughed.

“Don’t be afraid, Lubov Alexandrovna!” cried Olga Mihalovna, loud enough for all the ladies to hear that she was with them.  “Don’t be afraid!  You must learn!  If you marry a Tolstoyan he will make you mow.”

Lubotchka raised the scythe, but began laughing again, and, helpless with laughter, let go of it at once.  She was ashamed and pleased at being talked to as though grown up.  Nata, with a cold, serious face, with no trace of smiling or shyness, took the scythe, swung it and caught it in the grass; Vata, also without a smile, as cold and serious as her sister, took the scythe, and silently thrust it into the earth.  Having done this, the two sisters linked arms and walked in silence to the raspberries.

Pyotr Dmitritch laughed and played about like a boy, and this childish, frolicsome mood in which he became exceedingly good-natured suited him far better than any other.  Olga Mihalovna loved him when he was like that.  But his boyishness did not usually last long.  It did not this time; after playing with the scythe, he for some reason thought it necessary to take a serious tone about it.