Sanin understood his companion’s disposition of mind, and so he did not burden him with questions; he restricted himself to the most essential. He learnt that he had been for two years in the service (in the Uhlans! how nice he must have looked in the short uniform jacket!) that he had married three years before, and had now been for two years abroad with his wife, “who is now undergoing some sort of cure at Wiesbaden,” and was then going to Paris. On his side too, Sanin did not enlarge much on his past life and his plans; he went straight to the principal point—that is, he began talking of his intention of selling his estate. Polozov listened to him in silence, his eyes straying from time to time to the door, by which the luncheon was to appear. The luncheon did appear at last. The head-waiter, accompanied by two other attendants, brought in several dishes under silver covers. “Is the property in the Tula province?” said Polozov, seating himself at the table, and tucking a napkin into his shirt collar. “Yes.” “In the Efremovsky district … I know it.” “Do you know my place, Aleksyevka?” Sanin asked, sitting down too at the table. “Yes, I know it.” Polozov thrust in his mouth a piece of omelette with truffles. “Maria Nikolaevna, my wife, has an estate in that neighbourhood…. Uncork that bottle, waiter! You’ve a good piece of land, only your peasants have cut down the timber. Why are you selling it?” “I want the money, my friend. I would sell it cheap. Come, you might as well buy it … by the way.” Polozov gulped down a glass of wine, wiped his lips with the napkin, and again set to work chewing slowly and noisily. “Oh,” he enunciated at last…. “I don’t go in for buying estates; I’ve no capital. Pass the butter. Perhaps my wife now would buy it. You talk to her about it. If you don’t ask too much, she’s not above thinking of that…. What asses these Germans are, really! They can’t cook fish. What could be simpler, one wonders? And yet they go on about ‘uniting the Fatherland.’ Waiter, take away that beastly stuff!” “Does your wife really manage … business matters herself?” Sanin inquired. “Yes. Try the cutlets—they’re good. I can recommend them. I’ve told you already, Dimitri Pavlovitch, I don’t interfere in any of my wife’s concerns, and I tell you so again.” Polozov went on munching. “H’m…. But how can I have a talk with her, Ippolit Sidorovitch?” “It’s very simple, Dimitri Pavlovitch. Go to Wiesbaden. It’s not far from here. Waiter, haven’t you any English mustard? No? Brutes! Only don’t lose any time. We’re starting the day after to-morrow. Let me pour you out a glass of wine; it’s wine with a bouquet—no vinegary stuff.” Polozov’s face was flushed and animated; it was never animated but when he was eating—or drinking. “Really, I don’t know, how that could be managed,” Sanin muttered. “But what makes you in such a hurry about it all of a sudden?” “There is a reason for being in a hurry, brother.”