“Also, I have expended some seven roubles on your account,” went on Tarantiev. “Besides, you might as well advance me something towards the price of a dinner. Roadside inns are dear. As a rule they fleece one of five roubles.” Silently Oblomov handed him another rouble, in the hope that the man would now depart; but Tarantiev was not to be so easily shaken off. “And also you might order Zakhar to bring me a snack _now_,” he said. “But I thought you intended to dine at an inn?” “Yes, to _dine_, but at the moment the time is two o’clock, and no more.” Oblomov issued the necessary orders. On receiving them, Zakhar looked darkly at Tarantiev. “We have no food ready,” he said’. “Also, where are my master’s shirt and jacket?” “Shirt and jacket? Why, I gave them back to you long ago. I stuffed them into your own hands, and you bundled them away into a corner. Yet you come asking me where they are!” “Also, what about a floorbrush and two cups which you carried off?” persisted Zakhar. “Floorbrush? What floorbrush?” retorted Tarantiev. “Go and get me something to eat, you old fool!” “We have not a single morsel in the house,” said Zakhar; “and also there is nobody to cook it.” With which he withdrew. ‘Tarantiev looked about him, and, perceiving Oblomov to be possessed both of a hat and a cap, attempted unsuccessfully to borrow the former for the remainder of the summer, and then took his leave. When he had gone Oblomov sat plunged in thought. He recognized that his bright, cloudless holiday of love was over, and that workaday love had now become the order of the day, and that already it was so completely entering into his life’s ordinary tendencies that things were beginning to lose their rainbow colours.