VEROTCHKA
IVAN ALEXEIEVITCH OGNEFF well remembers the August evening when he opened noisily the glazed hall door and went out on to the terrace. He wore a light cloak and a wide-brimmed straw hat — the very hat which now, beside his top-boots, lies in the dust underneath his bed. He remembers that he carried a heavy package of books and manuscripts, and that in his free hand was a stout stick.
In the doorway, holding up a lamp, stood his host, Kuznetsoff, aged and bald-headed, with his long grey beard, and his cotton jacket, white as snow. And Kuznetsoff smiled benevolently and nodded his head.
“Good-bye, old friend!” cried Ogneff.
Kuznetsoff laid the lamp on the hall table, and followed Ogneff to the terrace. The narrow shadows of the two men swept down the steps, and, crossing the flower-beds, swayed, and came to a stop with the heads silhouetted against the lime-trees.
“Good-bye, and yet once more, thank you, old friend,” said Ogneff. “Thanks for your heartiness,
