did not talk to any one, did not play cards, and passed a bad night. She fancied the eau-deCologne they gave her was not the same as she usually had, and that her pillow smelt of soap, and she made the wardrobe-maid smell all the bed linen—in fact she was very upset and cross altogether. Next morning she ordered Gavrila to be summoned an hour earlier than usual.
"Tell me, please," she began, directly the latter, not without some inward trepidation, crossed the threshold of her boudoir, "what dog was that barking all night in our yard? It would n't let me sleep!"
"A dog, 'm . . . what dog, 'm . . . may be, the dumb man's dog, 'in," he brought out in a rather unsteady voice.
"I don't know whether it was the dumb man's or whose, but it would n't let me sleep. And I wonder what we have such a lot of dogs for! I wish to know. We have a yard dog, have n't we?"
"Oh yes, 'm, we have, 'm. Wolf, 'm."
"Well, why more? what do we want more dogs for? It's simply introducing disorder. There's no one in control in the house—that's what it is. And what does the dumb man want with a dog? Who gave him leave to keep dogs in my yard? Yesterday I went to the window, and there it was lying in the flower-garden; it had dragged in
