window, as though to drive away an importunate fly. Then she sat down in a low chair, and turning towards us, gave the order grimly: 'Everybody present to leave the room!'
We all withdrew-all, except the day page, to whom my grandmother's words did not apply, because he was nobody.
My grandmother's decree was carried out to the letter. Before dinner, both Baburin and my friend Punin were driving away from the place. I will not undertake to describe my grief, my genuine, truly childish despair. It was so strong that it stifled even the feeling of awe-stricken admiration inspired by the bold action of the republican Baburin. After the conversation with my grandmother, he went at once to his room and began packing up. He did not vouchsafe me one word, one look, though I was the whole time hanging about him, or rather, in reality, about Punin. The latter was utterly distraught, and he too said nothing; but he was continually glancing at me, and tears stood in his eyes. . .always the same tears; they neither fell nor dried up. He did not venture to criticise his 'benefactor'-Paramon Semyonitch could not make a mistake,-but great was his distress and dejection. Punin and I made an effort to read something out of the Rossiad for the last
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