“I? It’s a long story, a regular romance, my good friend! But don’t put yourselves out⁠—eat your dinner! I’ve been living, you know, ever since then⁠ ⁠… in the Oryol province. I rented an estate. A splendid estate! But do eat your dinner! I stayed there from the end of May, but now I have given it up.⁠ ⁠… It was cold there, and⁠—well, the doctor advised me to go to the Crimea.⁠ ⁠…”

“Are you ill, then?” inquired Groholsky.

“Oh, well.⁠ ⁠… There always seems, as it were⁠ ⁠… something gurgling here.⁠ ⁠…”

And at the word “here” Ivan Petrovitch passed his open hand from his neck down to the middle of his stomach.

“So you are here too.⁠ ⁠… Yes⁠ ⁠… that’s very pleasant. Have you been here long?”

“Since July.”

“Oh, and you, Liza, how are you? Quite well?”

“Quite well,” answered Liza, and was embarrassed.

“You miss Mishutka, I’ll be bound. Eh? Well, he’s here with me.⁠ ⁠… I’ll send him over to you directly with Nikifor. This is very nice. Well, goodbye! I have to go off directly.⁠ ⁠… I made the acquaintance of Prince Ter-Haimazov yesterday; delightful man, though he is an Armenian. So he has a croquet party today; we are going to play croquet.⁠ ⁠… Goodbye! The carriage is waiting.⁠ ⁠…”

Ivan Petrovitch whirled round, tossed his head, and, waving adieu to them, ran home.

“Unhappy man,” said Groholsky, heaving a deep sigh as he watched him go off.

“In what way is he unhappy?” asked Liza.

“To see you and not have the right to call you his!”

“Fool!” Liza was so bold to think. “Idiot!”

Before evening Liza was hugging and kissing Mishutka. At first the boy howled, but when he was offered jam, he was all friendly smiles.