“Dmítri Andréich! The coachman won’t wait any longer!” said a young serf, entering the room in a sheepskin coat, with a scarf tied round his head. “The horses have been standing since twelve, and it’s now four o’clock!” Dmítri Andréich looked at his serf, Vanyúsha. The scarf round Vanyúsha’s head, his felt boots and sleepy face, seemed to be calling his master to a new life of labour, hardship, and activity. “True enough! Good-bye!” said he, feeling for the unfastened hook and eye on his coat. In spite of advice to mollify the coachman by another tip, he put on his cap and stood in the middle of the room. The friends kissed once, then again, and after a pause, a third time. The man in the fur-lined coat approached the table and emptied a champagne glass, then took the plain little man’s hand and blushed. “Ah well, I will speak out all the same ... I must and will be frank with you because I am fond of you ... Of course you love her—I always thought so—don’t you?” “Yes,” answered his friend, smiling still more gently. “And perhaps...” “Please sir, I have orders to put out the candles,” said the sleepy attendant, who had been listening to the last part of the conversation and wondering why gentlefolk always talk about one and the same thing. “To whom shall I make out the bill? To you, sir?” he added, knowing whom to address and turning to the tall man. “To me,” replied the tall man. “How much?” “Twenty-six rubles.” The tall man considered for a moment, but said nothing and put the bill in his pocket. The other two continued their talk. “Good-bye, you are a capital fellow!” said the short plain man with the mild eyes. Tears filled the eyes of both. They stepped into the porch. “Oh, by the by,” said the traveller, turning with a blush to the tall man, “will you settle Chevalier’s bill and write and let me know?” “All right, all right!” said the tall man, pulling on his gloves. “How I envy you!” he added quite unexpectedly when they were out in the porch. The traveller got into his sledge, wrapped his coat about him, and said: “Well then, come along!” He even moved a little to make room in the sledge for the man who said he envied him—his voice trembled. “Good-bye, Mítya! I hope that with God’s help you...” said the tall one. But his wish was that the other would go away quickly, and so he could not finish the sentence. They were silent a moment. Then someone again said, “Good-bye,” and a voice cried, “Ready,” and the coachman touched up the horses. “Hy, Elisár!” One of the friends called out, and the other coachman and the sledge-drivers began moving, clicking their tongues and pulling at the reins. Then the stiffened carriage-wheels rolled squeaking over the frozen snow. “A fine fellow, that Olénin!” said one of the friends. “But what an idea to go to the Caucasus—as a cadet, too! I wouldn’t do it for anything. ... Are you dining at the club tomorrow?” “Yes.” They separated.