presence it was not possible to speak about anything; she found everything improper. Besides, she continually nagged us, "Parlez donc français," every time we, as if to spite her, wanted to chat in Russian; or, at dinner, we would just get the taste of some dish and would not want to be interrupted by any one, when she would burst in with "Mangez donc avec du pain," or "Comment-ce que vous tenez voire fourchette?" "What business has she with us?" we would think. "Let her teach the girls; we have Karl Ivánovich for that." I absolutely shared his hatred of other people.
"Ask mamma to take us out to the hunt," said Kátenka, in a whisper, stopping me by my blouse, when the grown people had entered the dining-room.
"All right, we shall try."
Grísha dined in the dining-room, but at a separate table. He did not raise his eyes from his plate, but now and then sobbed, made terrible grimaces, and kept on saying, as if to himself, "A pity! flown away — the dove has flown to heaven — Oh, there is a stone on the grave!" and so on.
Mamma had been out of humour since morning: the presence, words and acts of Grísha perceptibly intensified that feeling in her.
"Oh, yes, I almost forgot to ask you for one thing," said she, as she passed a plate of soup to father.
"What is it?"
"Please have your awful dogs locked up; they almost bit poor Grísha to death as he crossed the yard. They might attack the children some day."
When Grísha heard them speaking about him, he turned toward the table, began to show the torn corners of his garment, and munching, said:
"Wanted to kill. God did not let. A sin to hunt with dogs, a great sin! Strike no big ones, why strike? God will forgive, different days."
"What is he talking about?" asked papa, sharply
