He burst into a shrill, neighing laugh, and was about to begin his offensively affectionate tactics--he lifted his open, tawny hand, and aimed his forefinger with a black border on a thick yellow finger-nail towards a place where he might jab, pinch, or tickle the barefoot, bare-armed girl. But Zinaida, smiling and frowning at the same time, edged away from him and answered: “I’m an instructress in this school--Zinaida Ouzlova.” The sergeant drawled out: “An instructress! You are fibbing!” He did not believe at first that she was an instructress. He thought that she was the cook, or the washerwoman, who had tucked up her dress in order to wash, scour, or cook more conveniently; and that she was joking with him. But after he had scrutinized her face more intently, a face such as a cook does not have, and her hands, such as a washerwoman does not have--he suddenly believed. With astonishment and curiosity Zinaida eyed this strange, coarse, offensively affectionate creature with the heavy sabre in a black sheath dangling about his legs, and asked: “And who are you?” The sergeant replied with a very important air: “I am the local police sergeant.” He tried to look dignified. “What is it you want here?” asked Zinaida. The sergeant turned to her with a wink and asked: “Now tell me, my beauty, have you a runaway boy from town here? His mother is looking for him, and she’s notified the police. If he’s here with you, we’ve got to return him to town.” “Yes,” said Zinaida. “A town boy did spend a week with us here. We sent him home only to-day. He’s very likely with his mother now.” The sergeant smiled incredulously, and asked: “You’re not fibbing?” Zinaida shrugged her shoulders. She looked sternly at the man, and said in astonishment: “What are you saying? How is it possible to tell an untruth? And why should I tell you an untruth?” “How is one to tell?” growled the sergeant. “Once I begin to believe you there are lots of things you might say.” “I’ve told you the truth,” asserted Zinaida once more. “Well, just be careful,” said the sergeant with dignity. “We’ll find out all the same. You are sure you’ve returned him home?” “Yes, home to his mother,” replied Zinaida. “Very well, I shall report that to the Captain of the police.” He told a lie for dignity’s sake. It was the Commissary of the police who sent him here, and not the Captain. But it was all the same to Zinaida. She had got quite accustomed to thinking mostly about the children and her work. The stern reference to the police authorities did not impress her very much. The police sergeant left. He kept up his broad smile. He looked back several times at the instructress. He was gay and flustered all the way to town. His thoughts were coarse and detestable. Such are the thoughts of the savages who take shelter in the grey expanses of our towns--savages who hide under all sorts of masks, and who strut about in all sorts of clothes.