Nevertheless she could get no explanation of what had occurred, and could only take refuge in guesswork and supposition. She did not go to sleep till the return of her son-in-law, and, sitting in the drawing-room on the sofa, she continually pondered over what now most interested her, letting escape from time to time an “M’m.” And Iván Mikhailovich, after he had supped and taken an extra glass or two, came home and announced himself by a ring so angry and imperious that it sounded noisily through the quiet rooms, and frightened Maria Petrovna. “He must be drunk,” she thought, and, opening the door, she did not even sigh as usual, but spoke lovingly. “There is some supper left for you in the dining-room.” Iván Mikhailovich did not reply. He passed through the rooms with protesting step, banged the doors, coughed loudly, and, in general, gave one to understand that he was his own master. And to still more emphasize his independence, he did not go to sleep in the superb double bed with its silver ornaments, but lay down on the sofa in his study under the reindeer antlers and the rifle from which he had never fired a shot. “Here, take at least a pillow!” came Maria Petrovna’s meek voice from the other side of the door, and the white corner of a pillow was thrust through the slightly open door of the study. Her son-in-law did not reply. “It is uncomfortable to lie that way, your neck will pain you.” “Don’t you trouble yourself about my neck!” came from the cabinet. But Maria Petrovna threw the pillow on an easy chair, and the door closed. Iván Mikhailovich was a man who prided himself on the strength of his character, and, therefore, he did not take the pillow, but supported his head with his fist and puffed while he thought of the oppressive disagreeableness of married life. The dog Norma evidently took the part of the husband, and whenever the couple quarreled and occupied different sleeping rooms, the dog would not stay with the woman. Opening the door of the study with her paw, she approached the sofa, placed her black muzzle on Iván Mikhailovich’s breast, and gazed at him with eyes that wished to say: “What hags they are, all of them! They even do not know how to appreciate a man like you!” Iván Mikhailovich felt a silent gratitude toward Norma, and patted her with his hand, pulling lovingly at her long ears. But the door of the study again opened slightly, and from the other side came the whisper of Maria Petrovna: “Norma! Norma!” But Norma did not go. Iván Mikhailovich held her by the collar and patted her with redoubled energy. “She will let in fleas,” again came the low voice. “Norma! Norma!” Iván Mikhailovich sprang from the sofa, closing the door tightly, and the melodious sound of the lock-spring ended the diplomatic overtures of his mother-in-law. “Sleeps with the dog. A fine thing this!” spoke the grumbling voice behind the door, and all became quiet.