heard for the last time. He was standing on the steps, and beside him, with the same unchanged dejection on his face, straightening his bent back, clasping his hands behind him, diffusing an odour of ryebread and cotton fustian, and hearing nothing, stood the model servant, the decrepit old valet.
All the way to the town Mashurina was silent; she only smoked a cigarette. As they drew near the barrier she suddenly gave a loud sigh.
'I'm sorry for Sergei Mihalovitch,' she observed, and her face darkened.
'He's quite knocked up with worry', remarked Nezhdanov; I think his land's in a poor way.'
'That's not why I'm sorry for him.'
'Why, then?'
He's an unhappy man, unlucky! Where could one find a better fellow? But no no one wants him anywhere.'
Nezhdanov looked at his companion.
`Do you know something about him, then?'
'I know nothing . . . but one sees it for oneself. Good-bye, Alexey Dmitritch.'
Mashurina got out of the coach, and an hour later Nezhdanov was driving into the courtyard of the Sipyagins' house. He did not feel very well. . . . He had spent a night without
132
