After the guests had gone, leaving behind them tobacco smoke, glasses half-full of undrunk tea, and the scraps of the supper, the house suddenly subsided into quiet and peace, and Xenia Pavlovna sank into a chair, and remained motionless in a silent antipathy to her surroundings. She rested from the idle talk, noise, amiable smiles, and entertaining, and felt as if she were just recovering from a serious illness or had had to go through some severe penance. The mother, passing through the drawing-room, quickly threw open the ventilators, and remarked: “Just like a barrack,” pulling out of the jardinieres the cigarette-stubs which had been stuck into the earth by the smokers, and, waxing angry: “I purposely placed two ash-trays on each card-table, but no! they must go and stick their cigarette-stubs into the flower-pots!” Then she began to set the house to rights and clear the tables; and all this she did with irritation. Iván Mikhailovich threw off his coat, opened his vest, and, walking through the rooms, yawned, opening his mouth wide and displaying his teeth. Then he went into the bedroom, undressed, and stretched himself comfortably on the soft mattress of the splendid, wide bed. “Can’t you leave off putting the things in order till morning! Eh, how cleanliness has suddenly taken hold of them!” he shouted through the whole house, and listened: “Well, now the babes have revolted!” From the nursery came the crying of the children and the soothing voice of his wife. Well, now he knew that the racket would go on for a long time--she would not get away from them so soon. And, turning to the wall, he pulled the coverlet higher. Once or twice during the month they went visiting. And there the same story was repeated: conversations about the health of the little ones, the dwelling-houses, servants, the green tables, cigarette smoke, disputes about the Knave of Spades, and a supper with vodka, cheap wine, caviar, pickled herrings, and the indispensable cutlets and green pease. And after they left here, too, no doubt, was an opening of ventilators, and a perfect enjoyment of the ensuing quiet and peace. And so their life went on from day to day, monotonous and tiresome, like a rainy evening, when everything is wet, gray, and cloudy--an oppressive, colorless life. “We live just as if we were turning over the pages of a cook-book. One day only differs from another in so far as that yesterday we had rice soup and cutlets for dinner, and to-day cabbage soup and cutlets,” sometimes thought Xenia Pavlovna, and a kind of despair suddenly took possession of all her being, and it seemed to her that she must decide on something, do something. But what should she do? And in reply to this a sad smile appeared on her lips--gentle and helpless--and her eyes filled with unbidden tears.