dinner. After dinner he resumed his work, and continued it till late at night. Sometimes I peered through the keyhole; and always saw the same scene: my uncle sat at his desk and worked; and his work seemed always the same: with one hand he wrote, with the other he turned over the pages of a book; and — what seemed strangest to me — his body moved without cease; he swung his leg as a pendulum, whistled and nodded his head in time. His face expressed levity and abstraction, as if he were playing noughts and crosses. He always wore the same short, smart jacket and the same well-tied necktie, and even through the keyhole I could smell his delicate, feminine perfumes. He left his room only to dine, and then ate hardly anything.
“I can't understand your uncle,” complained my mother. “Every day for him alone we kill a turkey and pigeons, and I make compotes with my own hands; but all he touches is a plate of bouillon and a piece of bread, and then goes back to his desk. He'll die of starvation. When I argue with him about it he only smiles and jokes. No, he doesn't like our food!”
Evening was pleasanter than day. At sunset when long shadows lay across the road, Tatiana Ivanovna, Pobiedimsky, and I sat on the steps of the wing. Till dark, we kept silence — indeed, what was there fresh to say? — the one new theme, my uncle's visit,
