“Misha is merry, he is not crying,” thought Liza, “so he does not remember his mamma.  So he has forgotten me!”

And there was a horrible bitter feeling in Liza’s soul.  She spent the whole night crying.  She was fretted by her little conscience, and by vexation and misery, and the desire to talk to Mishutka and kiss him. . . .  In the morning she got up with a headache and tear-stained eyes.  Her tears Groholsky put down to his own account.

“Do not weep, darling,” he said to her, “I am all right to-day, my chest is a little painful, but that is nothing.”

While they were having tea, lunch was being served at the villa opposite.  Ivan Petrovitch was looking at his plate, and seeing nothing but a morsel of goose dripping with fat.

“I am very glad,” said Groholsky, looking askance at Bugrov, “very glad that his life is so tolerable!  I hope that decent surroundings anyway may help to stifle his grief.  Keep out of sight, Liza!  They will see you . . .  I am not disposed to talk to him just now . . .  God be with him!  Why trouble his peace?”

But the dinner did not pass off so quietly.  During dinner precisely that “awkward position” which Groholsky so dreaded occurred.  Just when the partridges, Groholsky’s favorite dish, had been put on the table, Liza was suddenly overcome with confusion, and Groholsky began wiping his face with his dinner napkin.  On the verandah of the villa opposite they saw Bugrov.  He was standing with his arms leaning on the parapet, and staring straight at them, with his eyes starting out of his head.

“Go in, Liza, go in,” Groholsky whispered.  “I said we must have dinner indoors!  What a girl you are, really. . . .”

Bugrov stared and stared, and suddenly began shouting.  Groholsky looked at him and saw a face full of astonishment. . . .

“Is that you ?” bawled Ivan Petrovitch, “you!  Are you here too?”

Groholsky passed his fingers from one shoulder to another, as though to say, “My chest is weak, and so I can’t shout across such a distance.”  Liza’s heart began throbbing, and everything turned round before her eyes.  Bugrov ran from his verandah, ran across the road, and a few seconds later was standing under the verandah on which Groholsky and Liza were dining.  Alas for the partridges!

“How are you?” he began, flushing crimson, and stuffing his big hands in his pockets.  “Are you here?  Are you here too?”

“Yes, we are here too. . . .”

“How did you get here?”

“Why, how did you?”

“I?  It’s a long story, a regular romance, my good friend!  But don’t put yourselves out—­eat your dinner!  I’ve been living, you know, ever since then . . . in the Oryol province.  I rented an estate.  A splendid estate!  But do eat your dinner!  I stayed there from the end of May, but now I have given it up. . . .  It was cold there, and—­well, the doctor advised me to go to the Crimea. . . .”