The man’s voice did not seem in any way sympathetic with the child’s grief; and the latter appeared to be begging for forgiveness. Making his way into a narrow dark passage with two doors on each side of it, Velchaninoff met a stout-looking, elderly woman, in very careless morning attire, and inquired for Pavel Pavlovitch. She tapped the door with her fingers in response to his inquiry—the same door, apparently, whence issued the noises just mentioned. Her fat face seemed to flush with indignation as she did so. “He appears to be amusing himself in there!” she said, and proceeded downstairs. Velchaninoff was about to knock, but thought better of it and opened the door without ceremony. In the very middle of a room furnished with plain, but abundant furniture, stood Pavel Pavlovitch in his shirt-sleeves, very red in the face, trying to persuade a little girl to do something or other, and using cries and gestures, and what looked to Velchaninoff very like kicks, in order to effect his purpose. The child appeared to be some seven or eight years of age, and was poorly dressed in a short black stuff frock. She seemed to be in a most hysterical condition, crying and stretching out her arms to Pavel Pavlovitch, as though begging and entreating him to allow her to do whatever it might be she desired. On Velchaninoff’s appearance the scene changed in an instant. No sooner did her eyes fall on the visitor than the child made for the door of the next room, with a cry of alarm; while Pavel Pavlovitch—thrown out for one little instant—immediately relaxed into smiles of great sweetness—exactly as he had done last night, when Velchaninoff suddenly opened his front door and caught him standing outside. “Alexey Ivanovitch!” he cried in real surprise; “who ever would have thought it! Sit down—sit down—take the sofa—or this chair,—sit down, my dear sir! I’ll just put on——” and he rushed for his coat and threw it on, leaving his waistcoat behind. “Don’t stand on ceremony with me,” said Velchaninoff sitting down; “stay as you are!” “No, sir, no! excuse me—I insist upon standing on ceremony. There, now! I’m a little more respectable! Dear me, now, who ever would have thought of seeing _you_ here!—not I, for one!” Pavel Pavlovitch sat down on the edge of a chair, which he turned so as to face Velchaninoff. “And pray _why_ shouldn’t you have expected me? I told you last night that I was coming this morning!” “I thought you wouldn’t come, sir—I did indeed; in fact, when I thought over yesterday’s visit, I despaired of ever seeing you again: I did indeed, sir!”