The frightened child， as a last desperate resort， crawledquickly under the table. His persecutor， completely infuriated，pulled out his large linen handkerchief and used it as a lash todrive the boy out of his position.
Here I must remark that Julian Mastakovich was a somewhatcorpulent man， heavy， well-fed， puffy-cheeked， with a paunchand ankles as round as nuts. He perspired and puffed andpanted. So strong was his dislike （or was it jealousy？） of thechild that he actually began to carry on like a madman.
I laughed heartily. Julian Mastakovich turned. He was utterlyconfused and for a moment， apparently， quite oblivious of hisimmense importance. At that moment our host appeared in thedoorway opposite. The boy crawled out from under the tableand wiped his knees and elbows. Julian Mastakovich hastenedto carry his handkerchief， which he had been dangling bythe corner， to his nose. Our host looked at the three of us rathersuspiciously. But， like a man who knows the world and canreadily adjust himself， he seized upon the opportunity to lay holdof his very valuable guest and get what he wanted out of him.
“Here’s the boy I was talking to you about，” he said，indicating the red-haired child. “I took the liberty of presumingon your goodness in his behalf.”
“Oh，” replied Julian Mastakovich， still not quite master ofhimself.
“He’s my governess’s son，” our host continued in a beseechingtone. “She’s a poor creature， the widow of an honest official.
That’s why， if it were possible for you—”
“Impossible， impossible！” Julian Mastakovich cried hastily.
“You must excuse me， Philip Alexeyevich， I really cannot. I’vemade inquiries. There are no vacancies， and there is a waitinglist of ten who have a greater right—I’m sorry.”
“Too bad，” said our host. “He’s a quiet， unobtrusive child.”
“A very naughty little rascal， I should say，” said JulianMastakovich， wryly. “Go away， boy. Why are you still here？
Be off with you to the other children.”
Unable to control himself， he gave me a sidelong glance.
Nor could I control myself. I laughed straight in his face. Heturned away and asked our host， in tones quite audible to me，who that odd young fellow was. They whispered to each otherand left the room， disregarding me.
I shook with laughter. Then I， too， went to the drawingroom.
There the great man， already surrounded by the fathersand mothers and the host and the hostess， had begun to talkeagerly with a lady to whom he had just been introduced. Thelady held the rich little girl’s hand. Julian Mastakovich wentinto fulsome praise of her. He waxed ecstatic over the dearchild’s beauty， her talents， her grace， her excellent breeding，plainly laying himself out to flatter the mother， who listenedscarcely able to restrain tears of joy， while the father showedhis delight by a gratified smile.
The joy was contagious. Everybody shared in it. Even thechildren were obliged to stop playing so as not to disturb theconversation. The atmosphere was surcharged with awe. Iheard the mother of the important little girl， touched to herprofoundest depths， ask Julian Mastakovich in the choicestlanguage of courtesy， whether he would honour them bycoming to see them. I heard Julian Mastakovich acceptthe invitation with unfeigned enthusiasm. Then the guestsscattered decorously to different parts of the room， and I heardthem， with veneration in their tones， extol the business man，the business man’s wife， the business man’s daughter， and，especially， Julian Mastakovich.
“Is he married？” I asked out loud of an acquaintance of minestanding beside Julian Mastakovich.
Julian Mastakovich gave me a venomous look.
“No，” answered my acquaintance， profoundly shocked bymy—intentional—indiscretion.
* * * * *
Not long ago I passed the Church of—. I was struck by theconcourse of people gathered there to witness a wedding.
It was a dreary day. A drizzling rain was beginning to comedown. I made my way through the throng into the church. Thebridegroom was a round， well-fed， pot-bellied little man， verymuch dressed up. He ran and fussed about and gave orders andarranged things. Finally word was passed that the bride wascoming. I pushed through the crowd， and I beheld a marvellousbeauty whose first spring was scarcely commencing. But thebeauty was pale and sad. She looked distracted. It seemedto me even that her eyes were red from recent weeping. Theclassic severity of every line of her face imparted a peculiarsignificance and solemnity to her beauty. But through thatseverity and solemnity， through the sadness， shone theinnocence of a child. There was something inexpressiblyna？ve， unsettled and young in her features， which， withoutwords， seemed to plead for mercy.
They said she was just sixteen years old. I looked at thebridegroom carefully. Suddenly I recognised Julian Mastakovich，whom I had not seen again in all those five years. Then I lookedat the bride again.—Good God！ I made my way， as quickly asI could， out of the church. I heard gossiping in the crowd aboutthe bride’s wealth—about her dowry of five hundred thousandrubles—so and so much for pocket money.
“Then his calculations were correct，” I thought， as I pressedout into the street.
