are dark, swift, flashing beetles that flit so in the heat of summer among the blades of dry grass.
'How good you are, Musa, Musotchka!' cried Tarhov. 'But you must stay, you must stay a little. . . . We'll have the samovar in directly.'
'Oh no, Vladimir Nikolaevitch! it's impossible! I must go away this minute.'
'You must rest a little, anyway. You're out of breath. . . . You're tired.'
'I'm not tired. It's . . . not that . . . only . . . give me another book; I've finished this one.' She took out of her pocket a tattered grey volume of a Moscow edition.
'Of course, of course. Well, did you like it? Roslavlev,' added Tarhov, addressing me.
'Yes. Only I think Yury Miloslavsky is much better. Our madame is very strict about books. She says they hinder our working. For, to her thinking. . .'
'But, I say, Yury Miloslavsky's not equal to Pushkin's Gipsies? Eh? Musa Pavlovna?' Tarhov broke in with a smile.
'No, indeed! The Gipsies . . .' she murmured slowly. 'Oh yes, another thing, Vladimir Nikolaitch; don't come to-morrow . . . you know where.'
'Why not?'
'It's impossible.'
'But why?'
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