“Take your hands off, Savili, it is I.” “Who, not the Master?” exclaimed Savili, loosening his prisoner. “You were so good as to call Marina? But,” after a pause, “have you not seen her.” “I had already asked her to leave some supper for me and to open the door,” he said untruthfully, by way of protecting the unfaithful wife. “She had already heard that I am here. Now let my guest pass, shut the door, and go to bed.” “Yes, Sir,” said Savili, and went slowly to his quarters, meeting Marina on the way. “Why aren’t you in bed, you demon?” she cried, dashing past him. “You sneak around at night, you might be twisting the manes of the horses like a goblin, and put me to shame before the gentry.” Marina sped past light-footed as a sylph, skilfully balancing dishes and plates in her hands, and vanished into the dark night. Savili’s answer was a threatening gesture with his whip. Mark was indeed hungry, and as Raisky showed no hesitation either, the sturgeon soon disappeared, and when Marina came to clear away there was not much to take. “Now we should like something sweet,” suggested Raisky. “No sweets are left,” Marina assured them, “but I could get some preserves, of which Vassilissa has the keys.” “Better still punch,” said Mark. “Have you any rum?” “Probably,” she said, in answer to an inquiring glance from Raisky. “The cook was given a bottle this morning for a pudding. I will see.” Marina returned with a bottle of rum, a lemon and sugar, and then left the room. The bowl was soon in flames, which lighted up the darkened room with their pale blue light. Mark stirred it with the spoon, while the sugar held between two spoons dripped slowly into the bowl. From time to time he tasted it. “How long have you been in our town?” asked Raisky after a short silence. “About two years.” “You must assuredly be bored?” “I try to amuse myself,” he said, pouring out a glass for himself and emptying it. “Drink,” he said, pushing a glass towards Raisky. Raisky drank slowly, not from inclination, but out of politeness to his guest. “It must be essential for you to do something, and yet you appear to do nothing?” “And what do you do?” “I told you I am an artist.” “Show me proof of your art.” “At the moment I have nothing except a trifling thing, and even that is not complete.” He rose from the divan and uncovered Marfinka’s portrait. “H’m, it’s like her, and good,” declared Mark. He told himself that Raisky had talent. “And it would be excellent, but the head is too large in proportion and the shoulders a trifle broad.” “He has a straight eye,” thought Raisky. “I like best the lightly-observed background and accessories, from which the figure detaches itself light, gay, and transparent. You have found the secret of Marfinka’s figure. The tone suits her hair and her complexion.” Raisky recognised that he had taste and comprehension, and wondered if he were really an artist in a disguise. “Do you know Marfinka?” he asked. “Yes.”