as a sheet, bathed in tears and overcome with his predictions and his sayings."
"Strange. But now does he still do the same?"
"It's strictly prohibited. There have been marvellous instances. A young cornet, the hope and joy of a distinguished family, mocked at him. What are you laughing at?' said the old man, angered. 'In three days' time you will be like this!' and he crossed his arms over his bosom to signify a corpse."
"Well?"
"I don't venture to believe it, but they say his prediction came true. He has a gift, Vassily Mihalitch. . . . You are pleased to smile at my guileless story. I know that you are greatly ahead of me in culture; but I believe in him; he's not a charlatan. Pushkin himself mentions a similar case in his works."
"H'm! I don't want to contradict you. I think you said he's not living alone?"
"I don't know . . . I believe his daughter is with him."
"Daughter?"
"Yes, or perhaps his wife; I know there is some woman with him. I have had a passing glimpse of her, but I did not notice."
"H'm! Strange . . ."
The young man fell to musing, Yaroslav Ilyitch to tender contemplation of him. He was touched both at seeing an old friend and at having satisfactorily told him something very interesting. He sat sucking his pipe with his eyes fixed on Vassily Mihalitch; but suddenly he jumped up in a fluster.
"A whole hour has passed and I forgot the time! Dear Vassily Mihalitch, once more I thank the lucky chance that brought us together, but it is time for me to be off. Will you allow me to visit you in your learned retreat?"
"Please do, I shall be delighted. I will come and see you, too, when I have a chance."
"That's almost too pleasant to believe. You gratify me, you gratify me unutterably! You would not believe how you have delighted me!"
They went out of the restaurant. Sergeyev was already flying to meet them and to report in a hurried sentence that Vilyam Emelyanovitch was pleased to be driving out. A pair of spirited roans in a smart light gig did, in fact, come into sight. The trace horse was particularly fine. Yaroslav Ilyitch pressed his best friend's hand as though in a vice, touched his
