“What nonsense!” said his wife, “why should he be examined? Why should he be arrested? I think he ought to be rewarded. They don’t care who they kill; they shoot policemen round the corner; they profit by the red cross uniform to kill the police; they were shooting from some of the churches to-day.” Ermolov was a high police official who had walked into a doctor’s house the day before and had shot him with a pistol for no reason at all. Alexander Petrovitch shrugged his shoulders. “It’s the Government’s fault,” he said. “There is no order and no law anywhere. Protection is everything. What does it matter what the Revolutionaries do? That has nothing to do with the question. If an officer breaks the law he ought to be punished. He won’t be punished because he’s got protection. Besides which, Ermolov is not a normal man: he is mad, quite mad.” “What I say is,” said his wife, “that men who pretend to be doctors and use the protection of the red cross badges to shoot innocent policemen in the streets, ought to be shot in the street at sight.” “The whole thing is absurd!” said Alexander Petrovitch. “What did I tell you?” said his wife; “I told you so from the very first when the Manifesto was published. I said that nothing would come of it, and that it was a mistake. What do we want with a Constitution in Russia? It is all the Jews--all this chaos is the work of the Jews. And look what is happening now. One cannot even go out into the streets for fear of being shot. They killed the Schwetzar (the hall porter) next door this morning; he had been sent on a message.” “If people would stay at home and mind their own business,” said Alexander Petrovitch, “they would be quite safe. All day long I have been pestered by people who want to pass here and want to pass there; and they know quite well they can’t. And it’s no good telling them ‘Don’t go there, it’s dangerous; don’t go there, you’ll be shot,’ because the moment you tell them that, they make a point of going there at once. I’m sick of always saying the same thing. If they go out in the streets they must expect to be killed.” “These students and these Jews,” said his wife, “come and shoot you round the corner. I always said this would be the end of it. I always said no good would come of it. It is disgraceful!” Alexander Petrovitch settled down to his dinner, and, putting a napkin under his chin, began to eat the soup, but it was cold and he had no appetite. “Where are the children?” he said. “They’ve had their dinner,” said his wife. “Kolia and Peter are reading in the next room.” Alexander Petrovitch called his children, and two little boys came into the room. Kolia, a fair-haired, pasty-faced boy with large grey eyes, was aged nine, and Peter, a fat, dark-haired little creature in a sailor’s suit was aged seven. Peter climbed on to his father’s knee and his father asked him what he had been doing.