old woman he even pushed over as he briskly opened the door of the cleaned-up hut, and stepped aside to let the Count pass.
The hut was fairly large and roomy, but not very clean. The German valet, dressed like a gentleman, stood inside sorting the linen in a portmanteau, after having set up an iron bedstead and made the bed.
“Faugh, what filthy lodgings!” said the Count, with vexation. “Dyádenko! could you not find anything better at some gentleman’s house?”
“If your excellency desires it I will try at the manor-house,” answered the Quartermaster; “but it is not up to much—does not look much better than a hut.”
“Never mind now. Go away.”
And the Count lay down on the bed, and threw his arms behind his head.
“Johann!” he called to his valet, “again you’ve made a lump in the middle! How is it you can’t make a bed properly?”
Johann wished to put it right.
“No, never mind now. But where is my dressing-gown?” said the Count, in a dissatisfied tone.
The valet handed him the dressing-gown. The Count before putting it on examined the front.
“I thought so; that spot is not cleaned off. Could anyone be a worse servant than you?” he added, pulling the dressing-gown out of the valet’s hands and putting it on. “Tell me, do you do it on purpose? … Is the tea ready?”