“I say,” said the governor hesitatingly, “have a drink of mulled wine!”

“It’s all right⁠ ⁠… it’s all right! Drink it up!” the mayor urged him, gesticulating; “don’t be shy!”

The policeman took the glass in both hands, moved aside, and, trying to drink without making any sound, began discreetly sipping from the glass. He drank and was overwhelmed with embarrassment while the old men looked at him in silence, and they all fancied that the pain was leaving the young policeman’s heart, and that his soul was thawing. The governor heaved a sigh.

“It’s time we were at home,” he said, getting up. “Goodbye! I say,” he added, addressing the policeman, “tell the musicians there to⁠ ⁠… leave off playing, and ask Pavel Semyonovitch from me to see they are given⁠ ⁠… beer or vodka.”

The governor and the bishop said goodbye to the mayor and went out of the pavilion.

Yegor Ivanitch attacked the mulled wine, and before the policeman had finished his glass succeeded in telling him a great many interesting things. He could not be silent.