We had two other visitors that day besides the old man.  In the evening when it was quite dark, Gruzin came to fetch some papers for Orlov.  He opened the table-drawer, took the necessary papers, and, rolling them up, told me to put them in the hall beside his cap while he went in to see Zinaida Fyodorovna.  She was lying on the sofa in the drawing-room, with her arms behind her head.  Five or six days had already passed since Orlov went on his tour of inspection, and no one knew when he would be back, but this time she did not send telegrams and did not expect them.  She did not seem to notice the presence of Polya, who was still living with us.  “So be it, then,” was what I read on her passionless and very pale face.  Like Orlov, she wanted to be unhappy out of obstinacy.  To spite herself and everything in the world, she lay for days together on the sofa, desiring and expecting nothing but evil for herself.  Probably she was picturing to herself Orlov’s return and the inevitable quarrels with him; then his growing indifference to her, his infidelities; then how they would separate; and perhaps these agonising thoughts gave her satisfaction.  But what would she have said if she found out the actual truth?

“I love you, Godmother,” said Gruzin, greeting her and kissing her hand.  “You are so kind!  And so dear George has gone away,” he lied.  “He has gone away, the rascal!”

He sat down with a sigh and tenderly stroked her hand.

“Let me spend an hour with you, my dear,” he said.  “I don’t want to go home, and it’s too early to go to the Birshovs’.  The Birshovs are keeping their Katya’s birthday to-day.  She is a nice child!”

I brought him a glass of tea and a decanter of brandy.  He slowly and with obvious reluctance drank the tea, and returning the glass to me, asked timidly: 

“Can you give me . . . something to eat, my friend?  I have had no dinner.”

We had nothing in the flat.  I went to the restaurant and brought him the ordinary rouble dinner.

“To your health, my dear,” he said to Zinaida Fyodorovna, and he tossed off a glass of vodka.  “My little girl, your godchild, sends you her love.  Poor child! she’s rickety.  Ah, children, children!” he sighed.  “Whatever you may say, Godmother, it is nice to be a father.  Dear George can’t understand that feeling.”

He drank some more.  Pale and lean, with his dinner-napkin over his chest like a little pinafore, he ate greedily, and raising his eyebrows, kept looking guiltily, like a little boy, first at Zinaida Fyodorovna and then at me.  It seemed as though he would have begun crying if I had not given him the grouse or the jelly.  When he had satisfied his hunger he grew more lively, and began laughingly telling some story about the Birshov household, but perceiving that it was tiresome and that Zinaida Fyodorovna was not laughing, he ceased.  And there was a sudden feeling of dreariness.  After he had finished his dinner they sat in the drawing-room by the light of a single lamp, and did not speak; it was painful to him to lie to her, and she wanted to ask him something, but could not make up her mind to.  So passed half an hour.  Gruzin glanced at his watch.