I shook with laughter.  Then I, too, went to the drawing-room.  There the great man, already surrounded by the fathers and mothers and the host and the hostess, had begun to talk eagerly with a lady to whom he had just been introduced.  The lady held the rich little girl’s hand.  Julian Mastakovich went into fulsome praise of her.  He waxed ecstatic over the dear child’s beauty, her talents, her grace, her excellent breeding, plainly laying himself out to flatter the mother, who listened scarcely able to restrain tears of joy, while the father showed his delight by a gratified smile.

The joy was contagious.  Everybody shared in it.  Even the children were obliged to stop playing so as not to disturb the conversation.  The atmosphere was surcharged with awe.  I heard the mother of the important little girl, touched to her profoundest depths, ask Julian Mastakovich in the choicest language of courtesy, whether he would honour them by coming to see them.  I heard Julian Mastakovich accept the invitation with unfeigned enthusiasm.  Then the guests scattered decorously to different parts of the room, and I heard them, with veneration in their tones, extol the business man, the business man’s wife, the business man’s daughter, and, especially, Julian Mastakovich.

“Is he married?” I asked out loud of an acquaintance of mine standing beside Julian Mastakovich.

Julian Mastakovich gave me a venomous look.

“No,” answered my acquaintance, profoundly shocked by my—­intentional—­indiscretion.

* * * * *

Not long ago I passed the Church of——.  I was struck by the concourse of people gathered there to witness a wedding.  It was a dreary day.  A drizzling rain was beginning to come down.  I made my way through the throng into the church.  The bridegroom was a round, well-fed, pot-bellied little man, very much dressed up.  He ran and fussed about and gave orders and arranged things.  Finally word was passed that the bride was coming.  I pushed through the crowd, and I beheld a marvellous beauty whose first spring was scarcely commencing.  But the beauty was pale and sad.  She looked distracted.  It seemed to me even that her eyes were red from recent weeping.  The classic severity of every line of her face imparted a peculiar significance and solemnity to her beauty.  But through that severity and solemnity, through the sadness, shone the innocence of a child.  There was something inexpressibly naive, unsettled and young in her features, which, without words, seemed to plead for mercy.

They said she was just sixteen years old.  I looked at the bridegroom carefully.  Suddenly I recognised Julian Mastakovich, whom I had not seen again in all those five years.  Then I looked at the bride again.—­Good God!  I made my way, as quickly as I could, out of the church.  I heard gossiping in the crowd about the bride’s wealth—­about her dowry of five hundred thousand rubles—­so and so much for pocket money.