The sledges stopped unexpectedly.  I opened my eyes and I saw that we had come to a standstill in Sergievsky Street, near a big house where Pekarsky lived.  Orlov got out of the sledge and vanished into the entry.  Five minutes later Pekarsky’s footman came out, bareheaded, and, angry with the frost, shouted to me: 

“Are you deaf?  Pay the cabmen and go upstairs.  You are wanted!”

At a complete loss, I went to the first storey.  I had been to Pekarsky’s flat before—­that is, I had stood in the hall and looked into the drawing-room, and, after the damp, gloomy street, it always struck me by the brilliance of its picture-frames, its bronzes and expensive furniture.  To-day in the midst of this splendour I saw Gruzin, Kukushkin, and, after a minute, Orlov.

“Look here, Stepan,” he said, coming up to me.  “I shall be staying here till Friday or Saturday.  If any letters or telegrams come, you must bring them here every day.  At home, of course you will say that I have gone, and send my greetings.  Now you can go.”

When I reached home Zinaida Fyodorovna was lying on the sofa in the drawing-room, eating a pear.  There was only one candle burning in the candelabra.

“Did you catch the train?” asked Zinaida Fyodorovna.

“Yes, madam.  His honour sends his greetings.”

I went into my room and I, too, lay down.  I had nothing to do, and I did not want to read.  I was not surprised and I was not indignant.  I only racked my brains to think why this deception was necessary.  It is only boys in their teens who deceive their mistresses like that.  How was it that a man who had thought and read so much could not imagine anything more sensible?  I must confess I had by no means a poor opinion of his intelligence.  I believe if he had had to deceive his minister or any other influential person he would have put a great deal of skill and energy into doing so; but to deceive a woman, the first idea that occurred to him was evidently good enough.  If it succeeded—­well and good; if it did not, there would be no harm done—­he could tell some other lie just as quickly and simply, with no mental effort.

At midnight when the people on the floor overhead were moving their chairs and shouting hurrah to welcome the New Year, Zinaida Fyodorovna rang for me from the room next to the study.  Languid from lying down so long, she was sitting at the table, writing something on a scrap of paper.

“I must send a telegram,” she said, with a smile.  “Go to the station as quick as you can and ask them to send it after him.”

Going out into the street, I read on the scrap of paper: 

“May the New Year bring new happiness.  Make haste and telegraph; I miss you dreadfully.  It seems an eternity.  I am only sorry I can’t send a thousand kisses and my very heart by telegraph.  Enjoy yourself, my darling.—­ZINA.”

I sent the telegram, and next morning I gave her the receipt.