“And you, brother ... so you never married!” She sighed.
“Never!”
“Why?” asked my mother softly.
“It's hard to explain. Somehow it worked out that way. When young I worked hard, and thought little of such things; and when I began to feel the desire to live, I suddenly remembered that I was over fifty. . . . I never, somehow, managed to get married. But that is a tiresome subject.”
My mother and my uncle both sighed, and went on. I remained behind and sought my tutor to exchange impressions. Pobiedimsky stood in the middle of the yard and looked solemnly at the sky.
“You can see that he is a cultivated man,” he said. “I hope we shall get on with him.”
An hour later my mother returned to us.
“What a pity, my dears!” she began. “My brother has brought a servant; and a servant, God love him, whom I can't put in the kitchen, or the hall. He must have a room to himself. I don't know how to manage. The two of you must remove into the wing with Feodor, and give up your room to the valet.”
We consented readily. There was more freedom in the wing than under my mother's eyes.
“But that's not the worst!” continued my mother. “Your uncle says he will dine late, at seven o'clock, as at St. Petersburg. I'll go out of my mind! At
