In spite of my aversion for Arkady Pavlitch, I once happened to pass a night in his house. The next day I ordered my carriage to be ready early in the morning, but he would not let me start without a regular breakfast in the English style, and conducted me into his study. With our tea they served us cutlets, boiled eggs, butter, honey, cheese, and so on. Two footmen in clean white gloves swiftly and silently anticipated our faintest desires. We sat on a Persian divan. Arkady Pavlitch was arrayed in loose silk trousers, a black velvet smoking jacket, a red fez with a blue tassel, and yellow Chinese slippers without heels. He drank his tea, laughed, scrutinised his finger-nails, propped himself up with cushions, and was altogether in an excellent humour. After making a hearty breakfast with obvious satisfaction, Arkady Pavlitch poured himself out a glass of red wine, lifted it to his lips, and suddenly frowned. 'Why was not the wine warmed?' he asked rather sharply of one of the footmen. The footman stood stock-still in confusion, and turned white. 'Didn't I ask you a question, my friend?' Arkady Pavlitch resumed tranquilly, never taking his eyes off the man. The luckless footman fidgeted in his place, twisted the napkin, and uttered not a word. Arkady Pavlitch dropped his head and looked up at him thoughtfully from under his eyelids. '_Pardon, mon cher_', he observed, patting my knee amicably, and again he stared at the footman. 'You can go,' he added, after a short silence, raising his eyebrows, and he rang the bell. A stout, swarthy, black-haired man, with a low forehead, and eyes positively lost in fat, came into the room. 'About Fyodor ... make the necessary arrangements,' said Arkady Pavlitch in an undertone, and with complete composure. 'Yes, sir,' answered the fat man, and he went out. '_Voilà, mon cher, les désagréments de la campagne_,' Arkady Pavlitch remarked gaily. 'But where are you off to? Stop, you must stay a little.' 'No,' I answered; 'it's time I was off.' 'Nothing but sport! Oh, you sportsmen! And where are you going to shoot just now?' 'Thirty-five miles from here, at Ryabovo.' 'Ryabovo? By Jove! now in that case I will come with you. Ryabovo's only four miles from my village Shipilovka, and it's a long while since I've been over to Shipilovka; I've never been able to get the time. Well, this is a piece of luck; you can spend the day shooting in Ryabovo and come on in the evening to me. We'll have supper together--we'll take the cook with us, and you'll stay the night with me. Capital! capital!' he added without waiting for my answer. '_C'est arrangé_.... Hey, you there! Have the carriage brought out, and look sharp. You have never been in Shipilovka? I should be ashamed to suggest your putting up for the night in my agent's cottage, but you're not particular, I know, and at Ryabovo you'd have slept in some hayloft.... We will go, we will go!' And Arkady Pavlitch hummed some French song.