“Anastásya, Anastásya, please unlock the door for me.” That was a well-known gipsy-song, which was in vogue at that time.

“Perhaps. And you?”

“Where shall I, an old married man, go?”

“Well!”

Pákhtin, smiling, went to the glass hall, to join Syévernikov. He was fond of having his last word appear to be a joke. And so it came out at that time, too.

“Well, how is the countess’s health?” he asked, walking over to Syévernikov, who had not called him at all, but who, according to Pákhtin’s surmise, should more than anyone else learn of the arrival of the Labázovs. Syévernikov had somehow been mixed up with the affair of the 14th, and was a friend of the Decembrists. The countess’s health was much better, and Pákhtin was very glad to hear it.