A month went by--three months; yet Oblomov still did not start. Schtoltz, who had reached Paris long ago, continued to send him letter after letter, but they remained unanswered. Why so? Was it because the ink in the inkstand had become dried up and no writing-paper was available? No; both ink, pens, and paper were present in abundance. Indeed, more than once Oblomov sat down to write, and did so fluently, and, at times, as expressively and eloquently as he had done in the days when, with Schtoltz, he had dreamed of the strenuous life, and of traveling. Likewise he had taken to rising at seven o’clock in the morning, and to reading, and to carrying books about with him. Also, his face had lost its look of dreaminess, weariness, _ennui_--there was colour in his cheek, a sparkle in his eye, and an air almost of adventurousness--at least, almost of self-assurance--about his whole bearing. Lastly, no longer was the dressing-gown to be seen, for Tarantiev had carried it off to his friend’s flat, along with the rest of Oblomov’s effects. Thus Oblomov wore better clothes than had been his wont, and even sang cheerfully as he moved about. Why so? The reason was that there had come into his life two friends of Schtoltz’s, in the shape of a pretty girl named Olga Sergievna Ilyinitch and her aunt. On his first visit to them he was overcome with constraint. “How gladly I would take off my gloves!” he thought to himself. “And how hot the room is! And how unused to this sort of thing I have grown!” “Besides, she _will_ keep looking at me,” was his further reflection as diffidently he scanned his clothes. He even wiped his face with his handkerchief, lest a smut should have settled on his nose. Also, he touched his tie, to make sure that its folds had not come undone, as had sometimes happened with him. But no--all was as it should be. Yet she would persist in regarding him attentively. Next, a footman tendered him a cup of tea, with a plate of biscuits. He tried to subdue his nervousness, and to unbend; but in the act of unbending he seized such a handful of cracknels, biscuits, and sugared buns that the girl tittered and the rest of those present gazed at the pile with unconcealed interest. “My God, she is still looking at me!” he thought to himself. “What on earth am I to do with all these biscuits?” Without looking, he could tell that Olga had risen from her seat and moved to another corner. This helped to relieve his breast of a certain amount of weight. None the less she continued to contemplate him, in order to see what he would do with the confectionery.