The sun shone into the ballroom of the manorhouse through every chink and opening; streaks of white light lay on the floor, which was dented by the dancers' heels, and on the walls; the rays were reflected in the mirrors, rested on the gilt cornices and on the polished furniture. In comparison with them the light of the candles and lamps looked yellow and turbid. The ladies were pale and had blue circles round their eyes, the powder was falling from their dishevelled hair, their dresses were crumpled, and here and there in holes. The padding showed under the imitation gold of the braids and belts of notables; rich velvets had turned into cheap velveteens, beaver fur to rabbit skins, and silver armour to tin. The musicians' hands dropped, the dancers' legs had grown stiff. Intoxication had cooled and given place to heaviness; lips were breathing feverishly. Only three couples were now turning in the middle of the room, then two, then none. There was a lack of arm-chairs for the men; the ladies hid their yawns behind their fans. At last the music ceased, and as no one said anything, a dead silence spread through the room. Candles began to splutter and went out, lamps smoked. 'Shall we go in to tea?' asked the squire, in a hoarse voice. 'To bed...to bed,' whispered the guests. 'The bedrooms are ready,' he said, trying to sound cheerful, in spite of sleepiness and a cold. The ladies immediately got up, threw their wraps over their shoulders and left the room, turning their faces away from the windows. Soon the ballroom was empty, save for the old cellist, who had gone to sleep with his arms round his instrument. The bustle was transferred to distant rooms; there was much stamping upstairs and noise of men's voices in the courtyard. Then all became silent. The squire came clinking along the passages, looked dully round the ballroom, and said, yawning: 'Put out the lights, Mateus, and open the windows. Where is my lady?' 'My lady has gone to her room.' My lady, in her orange-velvet gipsy costume and a diamond hoop in her hair, was lying in an arm-chair, her head thrown back. The squire dropped into another arm-chair, yawning broadly. 'Well, it was a great success.' 'Splendid,' yawned my lady. 'Our guests ought to be satisfied.' After a while he spoke again. 'Do you know that I have sold the estate?' 'To whom?' 'To Hirschgold; he is giving me seventy-five roubles an acre.' 'Thank God we shall get away at last.' 'Well, you might come and give me a kiss!' 'I'm much too tired. Come here, if you want one.' 'I deserve that you should come here. I've done exceedingly well.' 'No, I won't. Hirschgold...Hirschgold...oh yes, some acquaintance of father's. The first mazurka was splendid, wasn't it?' The squire was snoring. CHAPTER VII