“My father was speaking about you,” she said drily, blushing and not looking at me.  “Dolzhikov has promised you a post on the railway-line.  Apply to him to-morrow; he will be at home.”

I bowed and thanked her for the trouble she had taken.

“And you can give up this,” she said, indicating the exercise book.

My sister and she went up to Madame Azhogin and for two minutes they were whispering with her looking towards me; they were consulting about something.

“Yes, indeed,” said Madame Azhogin, softly coming up to me and looking intently into my face.  “Yes, indeed, if this distracts you from serious pursuits”—­she took the manuscript book from my hands —­“you can hand it over to someone else; don’t distress yourself, my friend, go home, and good luck to you.”

I said good-bye to her, and went away overcome with confusion.  As I went down the stairs I saw my sister and Anyuta Blagovo going away; they were hastening along, talking eagerly about something, probably about my going into the railway service.  My sister had never been at a rehearsal before, and now she was most likely conscience-stricken, and afraid her father might find out that, without his permission, she had been to the Azhogins’!

I went to Dolzhikov’s next day between twelve and one.  The footman conducted me into a very beautiful room, which was the engineer’s drawing-room, and, at the same time, his working study.  Everything here was soft and elegant, and, for a man so unaccustomed to luxury as I was, it seemed strange.  There were costly rugs, huge arm-chairs, bronzes, pictures, gold and plush frames; among the photographs scattered about the walls there were very beautiful women, clever, lovely faces, easy attitudes; from the drawing-room there was a door leading straight into the garden on to a verandah:  one could see lilac-trees; one could see a table laid for lunch, a number of bottles, a bouquet of roses; there was a fragrance of spring and expensive cigars, a fragrance of happiness—­and everything seemed as though it would say:  “Here is a man who has lived and laboured, and has attained at last the happiness possible on earth.”  The engineer’s daughter was sitting at the writing-table, reading a newspaper.

“You have come to see my father?” she asked.  “He is having a shower bath; he will be here directly.  Please sit down and wait.”

I sat down.

“I believe you live opposite?” she questioned me, after a brief silence.

“Yes.”

“I am so bored that I watch you every day out of the window; you must excuse me,” she went on, looking at the newspaper, “and I often see your sister; she always has such a look of kindness and concentration.”

Dolzhikov came in.  He was rubbing his neck with a towel.

“Papa, Monsieur Poloznev,” said his daughter.