“The master, the master!” murmured the dvornik in great excitement as he saluted Ordynov. Then, cap in hand, he ran to meet the little old man, whose face somehow seemed familiar to Ordynov. At all events he believed he had seen him before. Since, however, there seemed to him nothing remarkable in the circumstance, he departed—the dvornik escorting him to the gate as though he were a gentleman of the finest quality.

“The humbug was only playing with me,” thought Ordynov. “God knows what sort of a mystery there may be hidden here.”

However, he had not gone far when the current of his thoughts changed. The weather was dull and cold, and snow showers were falling. He felt quite frozen, and the ground seemed to be swaying beneath his feet. All at once a familiar voice—a voice at once genial and pleasant to the ear—wished him good-morning.

“Why, it is Yaroslav Ilyitch!” exclaimed Ordynov.

Before him there was standing a man of about thirty—a short, thick-set, red-faced individual who had small, dull-grey eyes, perpetually smiling lips, and raiment—well, such raiment as only a Yaroslav llyitch would wear. He offered Ordynov his hand respectfully, for the two had made each other’s acquaintance only last year, and then by a mere accident in the street. To an easygoing nature Yaroslav llyitch joined an extraordinary facility for scraping acquaintance with persons of good social standing—persons who at least had the manners of high society, and were well-informed, if not exactly clever. Also, though he had a pleasant tenor voice, certain intonations in his speech (even when he was conversing with intimate friends) assumed a note of overbearing self-assertion which swept aside contradiction, and may have been the outcome of habit.

“What a lucky chance!” cried Yaroslav, with an expression of the purest delight beaming on his countenance.

“You see, I live here now,” explained Ordynov.

“But how long have you been doing so?” went on the other, already raising his voice a little. “I have known nothing of it, even though, as you surely remember, I am your ‘cousin.’ I too have been living in this quarter since I returned from Riazan a month ago. I look upon you, my good friend, as the oldest of my acquaintances,” and he laughed in good-natured fashion. “Sergiev!” he then cried. “Wait for me at Tarassov’s, and also tell Olsufiev’s dvornik to come to my office immediately. I shall be there within an hour.”

These brief orders given, the fine Yaroslav Ilyitch took Ordynov by the arm, and led him into a café.

“After such a long absence from one another,” he said, “we must have a little talk. Well,” he added in a tone of deference as he lowered his voice to the confidential note, “how are you getting on? Are you still working at science?”

“Yes—always,” replied Ordynov in an absent-minded way.

“How splendid, Vassilii Michaelovitch—how splendid!”—and Yaroslav pressed Ordynov’s hand with fervour. “Some day you will be an ornament to Russian society. May God speed you in the career which you have chosen! Heavens, how glad I am to have met you! How often I have thought of you! How often I have said to myself, ‘Where is our good, our generous, our talented Vassilii Michaelovitch?’ ”