Shvarts, making an indefinite bow, stood still, obviously neither accepting nor declining this invitation. Praskovya Fyodorovna, recognising Pyotr Ivanovitch, sighed, went right up to him, took his hand, and said, “I know that you were a true friend of Ivan Ilyitch’s⁠ ⁠…” and looked at him, expecting from him the suitable action in response to these words. Pyotr Ivanovitch knew that, just as before he had to cross himself, now what he had to do was to press her hand, to sigh and to say, “Ah, I was indeed!” And he did so. And as he did so, he felt that the desired result had been attained; that he was touched, and she was touched.

“Come, since it’s not begun yet, I have something I want to say to you,” said the widow. “Give me your arm.”

Pyotr Ivanovitch gave her his arm, and they moved towards the inner rooms, passing Shvarts, who winked gloomily at Pyotr Ivanovitch.

“So much for our ‘screw’! Don’t complain if we find another partner. You can make a fifth when you do get away,” said his humorous glance.