MY NEIGHBOUR RADILOV
that, on the contrary, it would be a great pleasure to me to dine with him.
'Well, you know best.'
We went into the house. A young man in a long coat of stout blue cloth met us on the steps. Radilov at once told him to bring Yermolaï some vodka; my huntsman made a respectful bow to the back of the munificent host. From the hall, which was decorated with various parti-coloured pictures and check curtains, we went into a small room—Radilov's study. I took off my hunting accoutrements, and put my gun in a corner; the young man in the long-skirted coat busily brushed me down.
'Well, now, let us go into the drawing-room.' said Radilov cordially. 'I will make you acquainted with my mother.'
I walked after him. In the drawing-room, in the sofa in the centre of the room, was sitting an old lady of medium height, in a cinnamon-coloured dress and a white cap, with a thinnish, kind old face, and a timid, mournful expression.
'Here, mother, let me introduce to you our neighbour. . . .'
The old lady got up and made me a bow, not letting go out of her withered hands a fat worsted reticule that looked like a sack.
'Have you been long in our neighbourhood?' she asked, in a weak and gentle voice, blinking her eyes.
'No, not long.'
'Do you intend to remain here long?'
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