But then the singer starts again; again there is the clang of the bell in the entry.  The housemaid, scolding and angrily flopping with her slippers, goes to open the door.  Again some one comes in and stamps like a horse.

“He has come back!” thinks the singer.  “When shall I be left in peace?  It’s revolting!” She is overcome by fury.

“Wait a bit. . . .  I’ll teach you to get up these farces!  You shall go away.  I’ll make you go away!”

The singer leaps up and runs barefoot into the little drawing-room where her mari usually sleeps.  She comes at the moment when he is undressing, and carefully folding his clothes on a chair.

“You went away!” she says, looking at him with bright eyes full of hatred.  “What did you come back for?”

Nikitin remains silent, and merely sniffs.

“You went away!  Kindly take yourself off this very minute!  This very minute!  Do you hear?”

Mari d’elle coughs and, without looking at his wife, takes off his braces.

“If you don’t go away, you insolent creature, I shall go,” the singer goes on, stamping her bare foot, and looking at him with flashing eyes.  “I shall go!  Do you hear, insolent . . . worthless wretch, flunkey, out you go!”

“You might have some shame before outsiders,” mutters her husband . . . .

The singer looks round and only then sees an unfamiliar countenance that looks like an actor’s. . . .  The countenance, seeing the singer’s uncovered shoulders and bare feet, shows signs of embarrassment, and looks ready to sink through the floor.

“Let me introduce . . .” mutters Nikitin, “Bezbozhnikov, a provincial manager.”

The singer utters a shriek, and runs off into her bedroom.

“There, you see . . .” says mari d’elle, as he stretches himself on the sofa, “it was all honey just now . . . my love, my dear, my darling, kisses and embraces . . . but as soon as money is touched upon, then. . . .  As you see . . . money is the great thing. . . .  Good night!”

A minute later there is a snore.

A LIVING CHATTEL

GROHOLSKY embraced Liza, kept kissing one after another all her little fingers with their bitten pink nails, and laid her on the couch covered with cheap velvet.  Liza crossed one foot over the other, clasped her hands behind her head, and lay down.

Groholsky sat down in a chair beside her and bent over.  He was entirely absorbed in contemplation of her.

How pretty she seemed to him, lighted up by the rays of the setting sun!

There was a complete view from the window of the setting sun, golden, lightly flecked with purple.

The whole drawing-room, including Liza, was bathed by it with brilliant light that did not hurt the eyes, and for a little while covered with gold.