the outer room. "All days are not alike; the train may be late for a bit of luck."
The postman got up, and stretching lazily began putting on his coat.
Savély positively neighed with delight when he saw his visitors were getting ready to go.
"Give us a hand," the driver shouted to him as he lifted up a mail-bag.
The sexton ran out and helped him drag the postbags into the yard. The postman began undoing the knot in his hood. The sexton's wife gazed into his eyes, and seemed trying to look right into his soul.
"You ought to have a cup of tea . . ." she said.
"I wouldn't say no . . . but, you see, they're getting ready," he assented. "We are late, anyway."
"Do stay," she whispered, dropping her eyes and touching him by the sleeve.
The postman got the knot undone at last and flung the hood over his elbow, hesitating. He felt it comfortable standing by Raïssa.
"What a . . . neck you've got! . . ." And he touched her neck with two fingers. Seeing that she did not resist, he stroked her neck and shoulders. "I say, you are . . ."
"You'd better stay . . . have some tea."
"Where are you putting it?" The driver's voice could be heard outside. "Lay it crossways."
"You'd better stay. . . . Hark how the wind howls."
And the postman, not yet quite awake, not yet
