carrot out of the ground, and rubbing it under his arm 'to clean it,' proceeded to chew its thin tail. . . . I bowed to him, and inquired after his health.
He obviously did not recognise me, though he returned my greeting—that is to say, touched his cap with his hand, though without leaving off munching the carrot.
'You didn't go fishing to-day?' I began, in the hope of recalling myself to his memory by this question.
'To-day?' he repeated and pondered . . . while the carrot, stuck into his mouth, grew shorter and shorter. 'Why, I suppose it's Cucumber fishing! . . . But I'm allowed to, too.'
'Of course, of course, most honoured Vassily Fomitch. . . . I didn't mean that . . . But aren't you hot . . . like this in the sun.'
The brigadier was wearing a thick wadded dressing-gown.
'Eh? Hot?' he repeated again, as though puzzled over the question, and, having finally swallowed the carrot, he gazed absently upwards.
'Would you care to step into my apartement?' he said suddenly. The poor old man had, it seemed, only this phrase still left him always at his disposal.
We went out of the kitchen-garden . . . but there involuntarily I stopped short. Between us
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