I knew the voices. There was the gleam of a woman’s blue gown through the reddening nut bushes. Beside it stood a dark full coat. Another instant--and there stepped out into the glade, five paces from me, Sletkin and Evlampia. They were disconcerted at once. Evlampia promptly stepped back, away into the bushes. Sletkin thought a little, and came up to me. There was not a trace to be seen in his face of the obsequious meekness, with which he had paced up and down Harlov’s courtyard, four months before, rubbing up my horse’s snaffle. But neither could I perceive in it the insolent defiance, which had so struck me on the previous day, on the threshold of my mother’s boudoir. It was still as white and pretty as ever, but seemed broader and more solid. ‘Well, have you shot many snipe?’ he asked me, raising his cap, smiling, and passing his hand over his black curls; ‘you are shooting in our copse.… You are very welcome. We would not hinder you.… Quite the contrary.’ ‘I have killed nothing to-day,’ I rejoined, answering his first question; ‘and I will go out of your copse this instant.’ Sletkin hurriedly put on his cap. ‘Indeed, why so? We would not drive you out--indeed, we’re delighted.… Here’s Evlampia Martinovna will say the same. Evlampia Martinovna, come here. Where have you hidden yourself?’ Evlampia’s head appeared behind the bushes. But she did not come up to us. She had grown prettier, and seemed taller and bigger than ever. ‘I’m very glad, to tell the truth,’ Sletkin went on, ‘that I have met you. Though you are still young in years, you have plenty of good sense already. Your mother was pleased to be very angry with me yesterday--she would not listen to reason of any sort from me, but I declare, as before God, so before you now, I am not to blame in any way. We can’t treat Martin Petrovitch otherwise than we do; he’s fallen into complete dotage. One can’t humour all his whims, really. But we show him all due respect. Only ask Evlampia Martinovna.’ Evlampia did not stir; her habitual scornful smile flickered about her lips, and her large eyes watched us with no friendly expression. ‘But why, Vladimir Vassilievitch, have you sold Martin Petrovitch’s mare?’ (I was particularly impressed by that mare being in the possession of a peasant.) ‘His mare, why did we sell it? Why, Lord have mercy on us--what use was she? She was simply eating her head off. But with the peasant she can work at the plough anyway. As for Martin Petrovitch, if he takes a fancy to drive out anywhere, he’s only to ask us. We wouldn’t refuse him a conveyance. On a holiday, we should be pleased.’ ‘Vladimir Vassilievitch,’ said Evlampia huskily, as though calling him away, and she still did not stir from her place. She was twisting some stalks of ripple grass round her fingers and snapping off their heads, slapping them against each other.