What was funny was that Ivan Petrovitch bent across the verandah, and stretching with his long arms, put them round the shoulders of one of the French girls, lifted her in the air, and set her giggling on the verandah.  After lifting up both ladies on to the verandah, he lifted up Mishutka too.  The ladies ran down and the proceedings were repeated.

“Powerful muscles, I must say,” muttered Groholsky looking at this scene.  The operation was repeated some six times, the ladies were so amiable as to show no embarrassment whatever when the boisterous wind disposed of their inflated skirts as it willed while they were being lifted.  Groholsky dropped his eyes in a shamefaced way when the ladies flung their legs over the parapet as they reached the verandah.  But Liza watched and laughed!  What did she care?  It was not a case of men misbehaving themselves, which would have put her, as a woman, to shame, but of ladies.

In the evening, Ivan Petrovitch flew over, and with some embarrassment announced that he was now a man with a household to look after . . . .

“You mustn’t imagine they are just anybody,” he said.  “It is true they are French.  They shout at the top of their voices, and drink . . . but we all know!  The French are brought up to be like that!  It can’t be helped. . . .  The prince,” Ivan Petrovitch added, “let me have them almost for nothing. . . .  He said:  ’take them, take them. . . .’  I must introduce you to the prince sometime.  A man of culture!  He’s for ever writing, writing. . . .  And do you know what their names are?  One is Fanny, the other Isabella. . . .  There’s Europe, ha-ha-ha! . . .  The west!  Good-bye!”

Ivan Petrovitch left Liza and Groholsky in peace, and devoted himself to his ladies.  All day long sound of talk, laughter, and the clatter of crockery came from his villa. . . .  The lights were not put out till far into the night. . . .  Groholsky was in bliss. . . .  At last, after a prolonged interval of agony, he felt happy and at peace again.  Ivan Petrovitch with his two ladies had no such happiness as he had with one.  But alas, destiny has no heart.  She plays with the Groholskys, the Lizas, the Ivans, and the Mishutkas as with pawns. . . .  Groholsky lost his peace again. . . .

One morning, about ten days afterwards, on waking up late, he went out on to the verandah and saw a spectacle which shocked him, revolted him, and moved him to intense indignation.  Under the verandah of the villa opposite stood the French women, and between them Liza.  She was talking and looking askance at her own villa as though to see whether that tyrant, that despot were awake (so Groholsky interpreted those looks).  Ivan Petrovitch standing on the verandah with his sleeves tucked up, lifted Isabella into the air, then Fanny, and then Liza.  When he was lifting Liza it seemed to Groholsky that he pressed her to himself. . . .  Liza too flung one leg over the parapet. . . .  Oh these women!  All sphinxes, every one of them!