"Ah, really, do you know, Sonochka, I think I'll go into the dining-room for a minute just to glance at the _Russki Invalid_. And you, my dear Romashov, kindly look after my wife here for a bit--they are starting the quadrille there." After this the Lykatschev family--a whole caravan of pretty, laughing, lisping young ladies, always chattering--made its appearance. At the head walked the mother, a lively little woman, who, despite her forty years, danced every dance, and brought children into the world "between the second and third quadrille," as Artschakovski, the wit of the regiment, liked to put it. The young ladies instantly threw themselves on Romashov, laughing and chattering in the attempt to talk one another down. "Lieutenant Romashov, why do you never come to thee uth?" "You wicked man!" "Naughty, naughty, naughty!" "Wicked man!" "I will give you the firtht quadwille." "Mesdames, mesdames," said Romashov in self-defence, bowing and scraping in all directions, and forced against his will to do the polite. At that very moment he happened to look in the direction of the street door. He recognized, silhouetted against the glass, Raisa Alexandrovna's thin face and thick, prominent lips, which, however, were almost hidden by a white kerchief tied over her hat. Romashov, like a schoolboy caught in the act, slipped into the reception-room as quick as lightning, but however much he might try to convince himself that he escaped Raisa's notice, he felt a certain anxiety. In his quondam mistress's small eyes lay a new expression, hard, menacing, and revengeful, that foreboded a bad time for him. He walked into the dining-room, where a crowd of officers were assembled. Nearly all the chairs round the long oilcloth-covered table were engaged. The blue tobacco smoke curled slowly along the roof and walls. A rancid smell of fried butter emanated from the kitchen. Two or three groups of officers had already made inroads on the cold collation and schnapps. A few were reading the newspapers. A loud, multitudinous murmur of voices blended with the click of billiard balls, the rattle of knives, and the slamming of the kitchen door. A cold, unpleasant draught from the vestibule caught one's feet and legs. Romashov looked for Lieutenant Bobetinski and went to him. Bobetinski was standing, with his hands in his trousers pockets, quite near the long table. He was rocking backwards and forwards, first on his toes, then on his heels, and his eyes were blinking from the smoke. Romashov gently touched his arm. "I beg your pardon!" said Bobetinski as he turned round and drew one hand out of his pocket; but he continued peering with his eyes, squinting at Romashov, and screwing his moustache with a superior air and his elbows akimbo. "Ha! it is you? This is very delightful!"