They did not play cards with him, they did not offer him cigars.  No one entered into conversation with him.  Possibly they recognised the bird by its feathers from a distance.  Thus, my gentleman, not knowing what to do with his hands, was compelled to spend the evening stroking his whiskers.  His whiskers were really fine, but he stroked them so assiduously that one got the feeling that the whiskers had come into the world first and afterwards the man in order to stroke them.

There was another guest who interested me.  But he was of quite a different order.  He was a personage.  They called him Julian Mastakovich.  At first glance one could tell he was an honoured guest and stood in the same relation to the host as the host to the gentleman of the whiskers.  The host and hostess said no end of amiable things to him, were most attentive, wining him, hovering over him, bringing guests up to be introduced, but never leading him to any one else.  I noticed tears glisten in our host’s eyes when Julian Mastakovich remarked that he had rarely spent such a pleasant evening.  Somehow I began to feel uncomfortable in this personage’s presence.  So, after amusing myself with the children, five of whom, remarkably well-fed young persons, were our host’s, I went into a little sitting-room, entirely unoccupied, and seated myself at the end that was a conservatory and took up almost half the room.

The children were charming.  They absolutely refused to resemble their elders, notwithstanding the efforts of mothers and governesses.  In a jiffy they had denuded the Christmas tree down to the very last sweet and had already succeeded in breaking half of their playthings before they even found out which belonged to whom.

One of them was a particularly handsome little lad, dark-eyed, curly-haired, who stubbornly persisted in aiming at me with his wooden gun.  But the child that attracted the greatest attention was his sister, a girl of about eleven, lovely as a Cupid.  She was quiet and thoughtful, with large, full, dreamy eyes.  The children had somehow offended her, and she left them and walked into the same room that I had withdrawn into.  There she seated herself with her doll in a corner.

“Her father is an immensely wealthy business man,” the guests informed each other in tones of awe.  “Three hundred thousand rubles set aside for her dowry already.”

As I turned to look at the group from which I heard this news item issuing, my glance met Julian Mastakovich’s.  He stood listening to the insipid chatter in an attitude of concentrated attention, with his hands behind his back and his head inclined to one side.