“Oh, what a pity!  I would take it to the gentry at the farm; they would give me half a rouble for it.  But it’s a long way to go—­ twelve miles!”

The stranger sat down, took off his gun and laid it beside him.

He seemed sleepy and languid; he sat smiling, and, screwing up his eyes at the firelight, apparently thinking of something very agreeable.  They gave him a spoon; he began eating.

“Who are you?” Dymov asked him.

The stranger did not hear the question; he made no answer, and did not even glance at Dymov.  Most likely this smiling man did not taste the flavour of the porridge either, for he seemed to eat it mechanically, lifting the spoon to his lips sometimes very full and sometimes quite empty.  He was not drunk, but he seemed to have something nonsensical in his head.

“I ask you who you are?” repeated Dymov.

“I?” said the unknown, starting.  “Konstantin Zvonik from Rovno.  It’s three miles from here.”

And anxious to show straight off that he was not quite an ordinary peasant, but something better, Konstantin hastened to add: 

“We keep bees and fatten pigs.”

“Do you live with your father or in a house of your own?”

“No; now I am living in a house of my own.  I have parted.  This month, just after St. Peter’s Day, I got married.  I am a married man now! . . .  It’s eighteen days since the wedding.”

“That’s a good thing,” said Panteley.  “Marriage is a good thing . . . .  God’s blessing is on it.”

“His young wife sits at home while he rambles about the steppe,” laughed Kiruha.  “Queer chap!”

As though he had been pinched on the tenderest spot, Konstantin started, laughed and flushed crimson.

“But, Lord, she is not at home!” he said quickly, taking the spoon out of his mouth and looking round at everyone with an expression of delight and wonder.  “She is not; she has gone to her mother’s for three days!  Yes, indeed, she has gone away, and I feel as though I were not married. . . .”

Konstantin waved his hand and turned his head; he wanted to go on thinking, but the joy which beamed in his face prevented him.  As though he were not comfortable, he changed his attitude, laughed, and again waved his hand.  He was ashamed to share his happy thoughts with strangers, but at the same time he had an irresistible longing to communicate his joy.

“She has gone to Demidovo to see her mother,” he said, blushing and moving his gun.  “She’ll be back to-morrow. . . .  She said she would be back to dinner.”

“And do you miss her?” said Dymov.

“Oh, Lord, yes; I should think so.  We have only been married such a little while, and she has gone away. . . .  Eh!  Oh, but she is a tricky one, God strike me dead!  She is such a fine, splendid girl, such a one for laughing and singing, full of life and fire!  When she is there your brain is in a whirl, and now she is away I wander about the steppe like a fool, as though I had lost something.  I have been walking since dinner.”