ing himself up more and more, and not noticing that Mashurina had long ceased to attend, and was once more gazing away into the distance; 'never mind if there are swarms of all sorts in Russia: Slavophils and officials and generals, plain and decorated, and Epicureans and imitators and queer fish of all sorts. (I used to know a lady called Havronya Prishtehov, who suddenly without rhyme or reason turned legitimist, and assured every one that when she died they need only open her body and they would find the name of Henri V. engraved in her heart . . . on the heart of Havronya Prishtehov!) Never mind all that, my dear madam, but let me tell you our only true way lies with the Solomins, coarse, plain, shrewd Solomins! Recollect when I am saying this to you, in the winter of 1870, when Germany is making ready to crush France—when———'
'Silushka,' Snanduliya's soft little voice was heard saying behind Paklin's back, 'I think in your speculations on the future you forget our religion and its influence.. . . And besides,' she added hurriedly, 'Madame Mashurina is not listening to you.. . . You had better offer her another cup of tea.'
Paklin pulled himself together.
'Ah, yes, dear lady—won't you really?'
But Mashurina stared, turned her gloomy
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