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He kissed Yulia's hand and went out, but instead of going into the hall, walked into the drawing-room, then into the bedroom. "I've forgotten how the rooms go," he said in extreme confusion. "It's a strange house. Isn't it a strange house!" He seemed utterly overcome as he put on his coat, and there was a look of pain on his face.
They had tea in the little garden, where mignonette, stocks, and tobacco plants were in flower, and spikes of early gladiolus were just opening. Yartsev and Kotchevoy could see from Yulia's face that she was passing through a happy period of inward peace and serenity, that she wanted nothing but what she had, and they, too, had a feeling of peace and comfort in their hearts.
I am not a Yulia. . . . I don't justify her but I . . . ! Though I don't pose as a saint, I don't forget myself to that degree. My Suleiman never overstepped the limits. . . . No-o! Mametkul used to be sitting at Yulia's all day long, but in my room as soon as it struck eleven: 'Suleiman, march! Off you go! And my foolish Tatar boy would depart. I made him mind his p's and q's, hubby!
"I was always the benefactor of those that served me; they ought to remember me in their prayers forever," said the old man, with conviction, but touched by Yulia's tone of sincerity, and anxious to give her pleasure, he said: "Very well; bring my grandchildren to-morrow. I will tell them to buy me some little presents for them."
The porter took off his hat, the policemen saluted. Near the entrance Fyodor met them with a very serious face. "Very glad to make your acquaintance, little sister," he said, kissing Yulia's hand. "You're very welcome." He led her upstairs on his arm, and then along a corridor through a crowd of men and women. The anteroom was crowded too, and smelt of incense.
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