Such seemed the bootmakers Nekhludoff saw in the cellar, the pale, dishevelled washerwomen with their thin, bare, arms ironing at an open window, out of which streamed soapy steam; such the two house-painters with their aprons, stockingless feet, all bespattered and smeared with paint, whom Nekhludoff met—­their weak, brown arms bared to above the elbows—­carrying a pailful of paint, and quarrelling with each other.  Their faces looked haggard and cross.  The dark faces of the carters jolting along in their carts bore the same expression, and so did the faces of the tattered men and women who stood begging at the street corners.  The same kind of faces were to be seen at the open, windows of the eating-houses which Nekhludoff passed.  By the dirty tables on which stood tea things and bottles, and between which waiters dressed in white shirts were rushing hither and thither, sat shouting and singing red, perspiring men with stupefied faces.  One sat by the window with lifted brows and pouting lips and fixed eyes as if trying to remember something.

“And why are they all gathered here?” Nekhludoff thought, breathing in together with the dust which the cold wind blew towards him the air filled with the smell of rank oil and fresh paint.

In one street he met a row of carts loaded with something made of iron, that rattled so on the uneven pavement that it made his ears and head ache.  He started walking still faster in order to pass the row of carts, when he heard himself called by name.  He stopped and saw an officer with sharp pointed moustaches and shining face who sat in the trap of a swell isvostchik and waved his hand in a friendly manner, his smile disclosing unusually long, white teeth.

“Nekhludoff!  Can it be you?”

Nekhludoff’s first feeling was one of pleasure.  “Ah, Schonbock!” he exclaimed joyfully; but he knew the next moment that there was nothing to be joyful about.

This was that Schonbock who had been in the house of Nekhludoff’s aunts that day, and whom Nekhludoff had quite lost out of sight, but about whom he had heard that in spite of his debts he had somehow managed to remain in the cavalry, and by some means or other still kept his place among the rich.  His gay, contented appearance corroborated this report.

“What a good thing that I have caught you.  There is no one in town.  Ah, old fellow; you have grown old,” he said, getting out of the trap and moving his shoulders about.  “I only knew you by your walk.  Look here, we must dine together.  Is there any place where they feed one decently?”

“I don’t think I can spare the time,” Nekhludoff answered, thinking only of how he could best get rid of his companion without hurting him.

“And what has brought you here?” he asked.

“Business, old fellow.  Guardianship business.  I am a guardian now.  I am managing Samanoff’s affairs—­the millionaire, you know.  He has softening of the brain, and he’s got fifty-four thousand desiatins of land,” he said, with peculiar pride, as if he had himself made all these desiatins.  “The affairs were terribly neglected.  All the land was let to the peasants.  They did not pay anything.  There were more than eighty thousand roubles debts.  I changed it all in one year, and have got 70 per cent. more out of it.  What do you think of that?” he asked proudly.