For a few moments Oblomov remained too plunged in thought to notice Zakhar’s presence; but at length the valet coughed. “What do you want?” Oblomov inquired. “You called me just now, _barin_?” * * “Master” or “sir” “I called you, you say? Well, I cannot remember why I did so. Return to your room until I _have_ remembered.” Zakliar retired, and Oblomov spent another quarter of an hour in thinking over the accursed letter. “I have lain here long enough,” at last he said to himself. “Really, I _must_ rise.... But suppose I were to read the letter through carefully and _then_ to rise? Zakhar!” Zakhar re-entered, and Oblomov straightway sank into a reverie. For a minute or two the valet stood eyeing his master with covert resentment. Then he moved towards the door. “Why are you going away?” Oblomov asked suddenly. “Because, _barin_, you have nothing to say to me. Why should I stand here for nothing?” “What? Have your legs become so shrunken that you cannot stand for a moment or two? I am worried about something, so you _must_ wait. You have just been lying down in your room, haven’t you? Please search for the letter which arrived from the _starosta_ last night. What have you done with it?” “What letter? _I_ have seen no letter,” asserted Zakhar. “But you took it from the postman yourself?” “Maybe I did, but how am I to know where you have since placed it?” The valet fussed about among the papers and other things on the table. “You never know anything,” remarked his master. “Look in that basket there. Or possibly the letter has fallen behind the sofa? By the way, the back of that sofa has not yet been mended. Tell the joiner to come at once. It was you that broke the thing, yet you never give it a thought!” “I did _not_ break it,” retorted Zakhar. “It broke of itself. It couldn’t have lasted for ever. It was bound to crack some day.” This was a point which Oblomov did not care to contest. “Have you found the letter yet?” he asked. “Yes--several letters.” “But they are not what I want.” “I can see no others,” asserted Zakhar. “Very well,” was Oblomov’s impatient reply. “I will get up and search for the letter myself.” Zakhar retired to his room again, but had scarcely rested his hands against his pallet before stretching himself out, when once more there came a peremptory shout of “Zakhar! Zakhar!” “Good Lord!” grumbled the valet as a third time he made for the study. “Why should I be tormented in this fashion? I would rather be dead!” “My handkerchief!” cried Oblomov. “Yes, and very quickly, too! You _might_ have guessed that that is what I am wanting.” Zakhar displayed no particular surprise or offence at this reproachful command. Probably he thought both the command and the reproach natural.