There were no doubts in Abramka's mind when he left the doctor's house. He had arrived at his decision. That superb creation had conquered him. It would be a piece of audacity on his part, he felt, even to think of imitating such a gown. Why, it was not a gown. It was a dream, a fantastic vision--without a bodice, without puffs or frills or tawdry trimmings of any sort. Simplicity itself and yet so chic. Back in his shop he opened the package of fashion-plates that had just arrived from Kiev. He turned the pages and stared in astonishment. What was that? Could he trust his eyes? An Empire gown. There it was, with the broad voluptuous drapery of lace hanging from the shoulders and the edging of down. Almost exactly the same thing as Mrs. Shaldin's. He glanced up and saw Semyonov outside the window. He had certainly come to fetch him to the captain's wife, who must have ordered him to watch the tailor's movements, and must have learned that he had just been at Mrs. Shaldin's. Semyonov entered and told him his mistress wanted to see him right away. Abramka slammed the fashion magazine shut as if afraid that Semyonov might catch a glimpse of the new Empire fashion and give the secret away. "I will come immediately," he said crossly. He picked up his fashion plates, put the yard measure in his pocket, rammed his silk hat sorrowfully on his head and set off for the captain's house. He found Mrs. Zarubkin pacing the room excitedly, greeted her, but carefully avoided meeting her eyes. "Well, what did you find out?" "Nothing, Mrs. Zarubkin," said Abramka dejectedly. "Unfortunately I couldn't find out a thing." "Idiot! I have no patience with you. Where are the fashion plates?" "Here, Mrs. Zarubkin." She turned the pages, looked at one picture after the other, and suddenly her eyes shone and her cheeks reddened. "Oh, Empire! The very thing. Empire is the very latest. Make this one for me," she cried commandingly. Abramka turned pale. "Ampeer, Mrs. Zarubkin? I can't make that Ampeer dress for you," he murmured. "Why not?" asked the captain's wife, giving him a searching look. "Because--because--I can't." "Oh--h--h, you can't? You know why you can't. Because that is the style of Mrs. Shaldin's dress. So that is the reliability you boast so about? Great!" "Mrs. Zarubkin, I will make any other dress you choose, but it is absolutely impossible for me to make this one." "I don't need your fashion plates, do you hear me? Get out of here, and don't ever show your face again." "Mrs. Zarubkin, I--" "Get out of here," repeated the captain's wife, quite beside herself. The poor tailor stuck his yard measure, which he had already taken out, back into his pocket and left. Half an hour later the captain's wife was entering a train for Kiev, carrying a large package which contained material for a dress. The captain had accompanied her to the station with a pucker in his forehead. That was five days before the ball.