“What subject are you studying?” she asked, forgetting that she had already put that question to him.

“Medicine.”

Olga Mihalovna now remembered that she had been away from the ladies for a long while.

“Yes?  Then I suppose you are going to be a doctor?” she said, getting up.  “That’s splendid.  I am sorry I did not go in for medicine myself.  So you will finish your dinner here, gentlemen, and then come into the garden.  I will introduce you to the young ladies.”

She went out and glanced at her watch:  it was five minutes to six.  And she wondered that the time had gone so slowly, and thought with horror that there were six more hours before midnight, when the party would break up.  How could she get through those six hours?  What phrases could she utter?  How should she behave to her husband?

There was not a soul in the drawing-room or on the verandah.  All the guests were sauntering about the garden.

“I shall have to suggest a walk in the birchwood before tea, or else a row in the boats,” thought Olga Mihalovna, hurrying to the croquet ground, from which came the sounds of voices and laughter.

“And sit the old people down to vint. . . .”  She met Grigory the footman coming from the croquet ground with empty bottles.

“Where are the ladies?” she asked.

“Among the raspberry-bushes.  The master’s there, too.”

“Oh, good heavens!” some one on the croquet lawn shouted with exasperation.  “I have told you a thousand times over!  To know the Bulgarians you must see them!  You can’t judge from the papers!”

Either because of the outburst or for some other reason, Olga Mihalovna was suddenly aware of a terrible weakness all over, especially in her legs and in her shoulders.  She felt she could not bear to speak, to listen, or to move.

“Grigory,” she said faintly and with an effort, “when you have to serve tea or anything, please don’t appeal to me, don’t ask me anything, don’t speak of anything. . . .  Do it all yourself, and . . . and don’t make a noise with your feet, I entreat you. . . .  I can’t, because . . .”

Without finishing, she walked on towards the croquet lawn, but on the way she thought of the ladies, and turned towards the raspberry-bushes.  The sky, the air, and the trees looked gloomy again and threatened rain; it was hot and stifling.  An immense flock of crows, foreseeing a storm, flew cawing over the garden.  The paths were more overgrown, darker, and narrower as they got nearer the kitchen garden.  In one of them, buried in a thick tangle of wild pear, crab-apple, sorrel, young oaks, and hopbine, clouds of tiny black flies swarmed round Olga Mihalovna.  She covered her face with her hands and began forcing herself to think of the little creature . . . .  There floated through her imagination the figures of Grigory, Mitya, Kolya, the faces of the peasants who had come in the morning to present their congratulations.