“Give me another pair of trousers quick,” said Mark impatiently. “What is the good of chattering?” “I have no wine, because we drank it all at dinner, when Monsieur Charles was our guest.” “Where do you keep your clothes?” “My wife is asleep and I don’t know; you must ask Avdotya.” “Fool! I will find them myself!” He took a light, and went into the next room. “You see what he is like,” sighed Leonti, addressing Raisky. After about ten minutes, Mark returned with the trousers and Leonti questioned him as to how he had got wet through. “I was crossing the Volga in a fishing-boat. The ass of a fisherman fell asleep, and brought us right up into the reeds by the island, and we had to get out among the reeds to extricate the boat.” Without taking any heed of Raisky, he changed his trousers and sat down with his feet drawn up under him in the great armchair, so that his knees were on a level with his face, and he supported his bearded chin upon them. Raisky observed him silently. Mark was twenty-seven, built as if his muscles were iron, and well proportioned; a thick mane of light brown hair framed his pale face with its high arched forehead, and fell in long locks on his neck. The full beard was paler in colour. His open, bold, irregular, rather thin face was illuminated every now and then by a smile--of which it was hard to read the meaning; one could not tell whether it spelt vexation, mockery or pleasure. His grey eyes could be bold and commanding, but for the most part wore a cold expression of contempt. Tied up in a knot as he was, he now sat motionless with staring eyes, stirring neither hand nor foot. There was something restless and watchful in the motionless attitude, as in that of a dog apparently at rest, but ready to spring. Suddenly his eyes gleamed, and he turned to Raisky. “You will have brought some good cigars from St. Petersburg,” he began without ceremony. “Give me one.” Raisky offered his cigar case, and reminded Leonti that he had not introduced them. “What need is there of introduction! You came in by the same way, and both know who the other is.” “Words of wisdom from the scholar!” ejaculated Mark. “That same Mark of whom I wrote to you, don’t you remember!” said Leonti. “Wait, I will introduce myself,” cried Mark, springing from the easy chair. He posed ceremoniously, and bowed. “I have the honour to present myself, Mark Volokov, under police surveillance, involuntary citizen of this town.” He puffed away at his cigar, and again rolled himself up in a ball. “What do you do with yourself here?” asked Raisky. “I think, as you do.” “You love art, are perhaps an artist?” “And are you an artist?” “Painter and musician,” broke in Leonti, “and now he is writing a novel. Take care, brother, he may put you in too.” Raisky signed to him to be silent. “Yes, I am an artist,” Mark went on, “but of a different kind. Your Aunt will have acquainted you with my works.” “She won’t hear your name mentioned.”