“There are women and women, Marya Dmitrievna.  There are unhappily such . . . of flighty character . . . and at a certain age too, and then they are not brought up in good principles.” (Sergei Petrovitch drew a blue checked handkerchief out of his pocket and began to unfold it.) “There are such women, no doubt.” (Sergei Petrovitch applied a corner of the handkerchief first to one and then to the other eye.) “But speaking generally, if one takes into consideration, I mean...the dust in the town is really extraordinary to-day,” he wound up.

“Maman, maman,” cried a pretty little girl of eleven running into the room, “Vladimir Nikolaitch is coming on horseback!”

Marya Dmitrievna got up; Sergei Petrovitch also rose and made a bow.  “Our humble respects to Elena Mihalovna,” he said, and turning aside into a corner for good manners, he began blowing his long straight nose.

“What a splendid horse he has!” continued the little girl.  “He was at the gate just now, he told Lisa and me he would dismount at the steps.”

The sound of hoofs was heard; and a graceful young man, riding a beautiful bay horse, was seen in the street, and stopped at the open window.

Chapter III

“How do you do, Marya Dmitrievna?” cried the young man in a pleasant, ringing voice.  “How do you like my new purchase?”

Marya Dmitrievna went up to the window.

“How do you do, Woldemar!  Ah, what a splendid horse!  Where did you buy it?”

“I bought it from the army contractor . . . .  He made me pay for it too, the brigand!”

“What’s its name?”

“Orlando . . . .  But it’s a stupid name; I want to change . . . .  Eh bien, eh bien, mon garcon . . . .  What a restless beast it is!” The horse snorted, pawed the ground, and shook the foam off the bit.

“Lenotchka, stroke him, don’t be afraid.”

The little girl stretched her hand out of the window, but Orlando suddenly reared and started.  The rider with perfect self-possession gave it a cut with the whip across the neck, and keeping a tight grip with his legs forced it in spite of its opposition, to stand still again at the window.

“Prenez garde, prenez garde,” Marya Dmitrievna kept repeating.

“Lenotchka, pat him,” said the young man, “I won’t let him be perverse.”

The little girl again stretched out her hand and timidly patted the quivering nostrils of the horse, who kept fidgeting and champing the bit.

“Bravo!” cried Marya Dmitrievna, “but now get off and come in to us.”

The rider adroitly turned his horse, gave him a touch of the spur, and galloping down the street soon reached the courtyard.  A minute later he ran into the drawing-room by the door from the hall, flourishing his whip; at the same moment there appeared in the other doorway a tall, slender dark-haired girl of nineteen, Marya Dmitrievna’s eldest daughter, Lisa.