“Well, are they feasting? Have they money?”
“Poor sort of a feast! Nothing to boast of, Dmitri Fyodorovitch.”
“Nothing to boast of? And who are the others?”
“They’re two gentlemen from the town. … They’ve come back from Tcherny, and are putting up here. One’s quite a young gentleman, a relative of Mr. Miüsov, he must be, but I’ve forgotten his name … and I expect you know the other, too, a gentleman called Maximov. He’s been on a pilgrimage, so he says, to the monastery in the town. He’s traveling with this young relation of Mr. Miüsov.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes.”
“Stay, listen, Trifon Borissovitch. Tell me the chief thing: What of her? How is she?”
“Oh, she’s only just come. She’s sitting with them.”
“Is she cheerful? Is she laughing?”
“No, I think she’s not laughing much. She’s sitting quite dull. She’s combing the young gentleman’s hair.”
“The Pole—the officer?”
“He’s not young, and he’s not an officer, either. Not him, sir. It’s the young gentleman that’s Mr. Miüsov’s relation … I’ve forgotten his name.”
“Kalganov.”
“That’s it, Kalganov!”