The carriage started and immediately disappeared into the darkness. In the red circle of light cast by the lamp in the road, a fresh pair or trio of impatient horses, and the silhouette of a coachman with his hands held out stiffly before him, would come into view. Again there began kisses, reproaches, and entreaties to come again or to take a shawl. Pyotr Dmitritch kept running out and helping the ladies into their carriages.

“You go now by Efremovshtchina,” he directed the coachman; “it’s nearer through Mankino, but the road is worse that way. You might have an upset.⁠ ⁠… Goodbye, my charmer. Mille compliments to your artist!”

“Goodbye, Olga Mihalovna, darling! Go indoors, or you will catch cold! It’s damp!”

“Wo-o-o! you rascal!”

“What horses have you got here?” Pyotr Dmitritch asked.

“They were bought from Haidorov, in Lent,” answered the coachman.

“Capital horses.⁠ ⁠…”

And Pyotr Dmitritch patted the trace horse on the haunch.

“Well, you can start! God give you good luck!”

The last visitor was gone at last; the red circle on the road quivered, moved aside, contracted and went out, as Vassily carried away the lamp from the entrance. On previous occasions when they had seen off their visitors, Pyotr Dmitritch and Olga Mihalovna had begun dancing about the drawing room, facing each other, clapping their hands and singing: “They’ve gone! They’ve gone!” But now Olga Mihalovna was not equal to that. She went to her bedroom, undressed, and got into bed.