dinner time, though they had soon said all they had to say and were obviously bored. They simply did not know what to do with themselves, and having got into Litvinov’s lodgings they ‘stuck’ there, as they say. First they discussed the fact that Gubaryov had gone back to Heidelberg, and that they would have to go after him; then they philosophised a little, and touched on the Polish question; then they advanced to reflections on gambling and _cocottes_, and fell to repeating scandalous anecdotes; at last the conversation sank into a discussion of all sorts of ‘strong men’ and monsters of obesity and gluttony. First, they trotted out all the ancient stories of Lukin, of the deacon who ate no less than thirty-three herrings for a wager, of the Uhlan colonel, Ezyedinov, renowned for his corpulence, and of the soldier who broke the shin-bone on his own forehead; then followed unadulterated lying. Pishtchalkin himself related with a yawn that he knew a peasant woman in Little Russia, who at the time of her death had proved to weigh half a ton and some pounds, and a landowner who had eaten three geese and a sturgeon for luncheon; Bambaev suddenly fell into an ecstatic condition, and declared he himself was able to eat a whole sheep, ‘with seasoning’ of course; and Voroshilov burst out with something about a comrade, an athletic cadet, so grotesque that every one was reduced to silence, and after looking at each other, they took up their hats, and the party broke up. Litvinov, when he was left alone, tried to occupy himself, but he felt just as if his head was full of smouldering soot; he could do nothing that was of any use, and the evening too was wasted. The next morning he was just preparing for lunch, when some one knocked at his door. ‘Good Lord,’ thought Litvinov, ‘one of yesterday’s dear friends again,’ and not without some trepidation he pronounced: ‘_Herein!_’ The door opened slowly and in walked Potugin. Litvinov was exceedingly delighted to see him. ‘This is nice!’ he began, warmly shaking hands with his unexpected visitor, ‘this is good of you! I should certainly have looked you up myself, but you would not tell me where you live. Sit down, please, put down your hat. Sit down.’ Potugin made no response to Litvinov’s warm welcome, and remained standing in the middle of the room, shifting from one leg to the other; he only laughed a little and shook his head. Litvinov’s cordial reception obviously touched him, but there was some constraint in the expression of his face. ‘There’s ... some little misunderstanding,’ he began, not without hesitation. ‘Of course, it would always be ... a pleasure ... to me ... but I have been sent ... especially to you.’ ‘That’s to say, do you mean,’ commented Litvinov in an injured voice, ‘that you would not have come to me of your own accord?’