“Are you ill, then?” inquired Groholsky.

“Oh, well. . . .  There always seems, as it were . . . something gurgling here. . . .”

And at the word “here” Ivan Petrovitch passed his open hand from his neck down to the middle of his stomach.

“So you are here too. . . .  Yes . . . that’s very pleasant.  Have you been here long?”

“Since July.”

“Oh, and you, Liza, how are you?  Quite well?”

“Quite well,” answered Liza, and was embarrassed.

“You miss Mishutka, I’ll be bound.  Eh?  Well, he’s here with me. . . .  I’ll send him over to you directly with Nikifor.  This is very nice.  Well, good-bye!  I have to go off directly. . . .  I made the acquaintance of Prince Ter-Haimazov yesterday; delightful man, though he is an Armenian.  So he has a croquet party to-day; we are going to play croquet. . . .  Good-bye!  The carriage is waiting . . . .”

Ivan Petrovitch whirled round, tossed his head, and, waving adieu to them, ran home.

“Unhappy man,” said Groholsky, heaving a deep sigh as he watched him go off.

“In what way is he unhappy?” asked Liza.

“To see you and not have the right to call you his!”

“Fool!” Liza was so bold to think.  “Idiot!”

Before evening Liza was hugging and kissing Mishutka.  At first the boy howled, but when he was offered jam, he was all friendly smiles.

For three days Groholsky and Liza did not see Bugrov.  He had disappeared somewhere, and was only at home at night.  On the fourth day he visited them again at dinner-time.  He came in, shook hands with both of them, and sat down to the table.  His face was serious.

“I have come to you on business,” he said.  “Read this.”  And he handed Groholsky a letter.  “Read it!  Read it aloud!”

Groholsky read as follows: 

“My beloved and consoling, never-forgotten son Ioann!  I have received the respectful and loving letter in which you invite your aged father to the mild and salubrious Crimea, to breathe the fragrant air, and behold strange lands.  To that letter I reply that on taking my holiday, I will come to you, but not for long.  My colleague, Father Gerasim, is a frail and delicate man, and cannot be left alone for long.  I am very sensible of your not forgetting your parents, your father and your mother. . . .  You rejoice your father with your affection, and you remember your mother in your prayers, and so it is fitting to do.  Meet me at Feodosia.  What sort of town is Feodosia—­what is it like?  It will be very agreeable to see it.  Your godmother, who took you from the font, is called Feodosia.  You write that God has been graciously pleased that you should win two hundred thousand roubles.  That is gratifying to me.  But I cannot approve of your having left the service while still of a grade of little importance; even a rich man ought to be in the service.  I bless you always, now and hereafter.  Ilya and Seryozhka Andronov send you their greetings.  You might send them ten roubles each—­ they are badly off!