“Yes, yes.  Maslova.  All right, I will ask the others.  We shall hear the case on Wednesday.”

“Then may I telegraph to the advocate?”

“The advocate!  What’s that for?  But if you like, why not?”

“The causes for appeal may be insufficient,” said Nekhludoff, “but I think the case will show that the sentence was passed owing to a misunderstanding.”

“Yes, yes; it may be so, but the Senate cannot decide the case on its merits,” said Wolf, looking seriously at the ash of his cigar.  “The Senate only considers the exactness of the application of the laws and their right interpretation.”

“But this seems to me to be an exceptional case.”

“I know, I know!  All cases are exceptional.  We shall do our duty.  That’s all.”  The ash was still holding on, but had began breaking, and was in danger of falling.

“Do you often come to Petersburg?” said Wolf, holding his cigar so that the ash should not fall.  But the ash began to shake, and Wolf carefully carried it to the ashpan, into which it fell.

“What a terrible thing this is with regard to Kaminski,” he said.  “A splendid young man.  The only son.  Especially the mother’s position,” he went on, repeating almost word for word what every one in Petersburg was at that time saying about Kaminski.  Wolf spoke a little about the Countess Katerina Ivanovna and her enthusiasm for the new religious teaching, which he neither approved nor disapproved of, but which was evidently needless to him who was so comme il faut, and then rang the bell.

Nekhludoff bowed.

“If it is convenient, come and dine on Wednesday, and I will give you a decisive answer,” said Wolf, extending his hand.

It was late, and Nekhludoff returned to his aunt’s.

CHAPTER XVII.

COUNTESS KATERINA IVANOVNA’S DINNER PARTY.

Countess Katerina Ivanovna’s dinner hour was half-past seven, and the dinner was served in a new manner that Nekhludoff had not yet seen anywhere.  After they had placed the dishes on the table the waiters left the room and the diners helped themselves.  The men would not let the ladies take the trouble of moving, and, as befitted the stronger sex, they manfully took on themselves the burden of putting the food on the ladies’ plates and of filling their glasses.  When one course was finished, the Countess pressed the button of an electric bell fitted to the table and the waiters stepped in noiselessly and quickly carried away the dishes, changed the plates, and brought in the next course.  The dinner was very refined, the wines very costly.  A French chef was working in the large, light kitchens, with two white-clad assistants.  There were six persons at dinner, the Count and Countess, their son (a surly officer in the Guards who sat with his elbows on the table), Nekhludoff, a French lady reader, and the Count’s chief steward, who had come up from the