his friend the newest thing in Parisian gloves and an Easter card which Prince Tiumenev had recently sent him.
"What a life!" thought Oblomov, with a shrug of his shoulders. "What good can a man get out of it? It is merely a squandering and a wasting of his all. Of course, an occasional look into a theatre is not a bad thing, nor is being in love—for Lydia is a delightful girl, and pursuits like plucking flowers with her and rowing her about in a boat even I should enjoy; but to be in ten different places every day, as Volkov has——!"
He turned over on his back and congratulated himself that he at least cherished no vain social aspirations. 'Twas better to lie where he was and to preserve both his nerves and his human dignity. . . .
Another ring at the doorbell interrupted his reflections. This time the visitor turned out to be a gentleman in a dark frock-coat with crested buttons whose most prominent features were a clean-shaven chin, a pair of black whiskers around a haggard (but quiet and sensible) face, and a thoughtful smile.
"Good day, Sudbinski!" cried Oblomov cheerfully.
"Good day to you" replied the gentle-
