what is done in your office, we will ask some one else.' The clerks made no reply, one of them merely jerked his finger towards a corner of the room, where an old man was sitting at a table making notes on some official paper. Tchitchikov and Manilov passed between the tables and went straight up to him. The old man became deeply absorbed in his work.
'Allow me to ask,' said Tchitchikov with a bow, 'is this where I have to apply concerning deeds of sale?'
The old man raised his eyes and brought out deliberately: 'This is not the place to apply concerning deeds of sale.'
'Where then?'
'In the sales section.'
'And where is that section?'
'At Ivan Antonovitch's table.'
'And where is Ivan Antonovitch?'
The old man jerked his finger towards another corner of the room. Tchitchikov and Manilov made their way to Ivan Antonovitch. Ivan Antonovitch had already cast a glance behind him and stolen a sidelong look at them, but became instantly more deeply engrossed than ever in his writing.
'Allow me to ask,' said Tchitchikov with a bow, 'is this the right table to apply to concerning the sale of serfs?'
Ivan Antonovitch appeared not to hear the question and became absolutely buried in his papers, making no response whatever. It could
