She had been saying that each Saturday, for several decades, and each Saturday Pierre experienced bashfulness and delight, whenever he heard that. They seated themselves at the table; there was an odour of tea and of the pipe, and there were heard the voices of the parents, the children, and the servants, who received their cups in the same room. They recalled everything funny that had happened on the road, admired Sónya’s hairdressing, and laughed. Geographically they were all transferred a distance of five thousand versts, into an entirely different, strange milieu, but morally they were that evening still at home, just such as the peculiar, long, solitary family life had made them to be. It will not be so tomorrow. Peter Ivánovich seated himself near the samovar, and lighted his pipe. He was not in a cheerful mood.

“So here we are,” he said, “and I am glad that we shall not see anyone tonight; this is the last evening we shall pass with the family,” and he washed these words down with a large mouthful of tea.

“Why the last, Pierre?”