"Yes—several letters."
"But they are not what I want."
"I can see no others," asserted Zakhar.
"Very well," was Oblomov's impatient reply. "I will get up and search for the letter myself."
Zakhar retired to his room again, but had scarcely rested his hands against his pallet before stretching himself out, when once more there came a peremptory shout of "Zakhar! Zakhar!"
"Good Lord!" grumbled the valet as a third time he made for the study. "Why should I be tormented in this fashion? I would rather be dead!"
"My handkerchief!" cried Oblomov. "Yes, and very quickly, too! You might have guessed that that is what I am wanting."
Zakhar displayed no particular surprise or offence at this reproachful command. Probably he thought both the command and the reproach natural.
"Who knows where the handkerchief is?" he muttered as he made a tour of the room and felt each chair (although he could not but have perceived that on them there was nothing whatsoever lying). "You lose everything," he added, opening the door
