Heavy sleep again seals my eyelids, and I wake in two hours’ time, feeling a good deal fresher. I wonder what my friends are doing. Ketcher and Ogaryóv were to spend the night where we dined. I must admit that the punch was very good; but its effect on the head is annoying. To drink it out of a tumbler is a mistake; I am quite determined in future to drink it always out of a liqueur-glass.
Meanwhile my father has read the papers and interviewed the cook as usual.
“Have you a headache to-day?” he asks.
“Yes, a bad one.”
“Perhaps you’ve been working too hard.”
But the way he asked the question showed he did not believe that.
“Oh, I forgot: you were dining with your friends last night, eh?”
“Yes, I was.”
“A birthday party? And they treated you handsomely, I’ve no doubt. Did you have soup made with Madeira? That sort of thing is not to my taste. I know one of your young friends is too often at the bottle; but I can’t imagine where he gets the taste from. His poor father used to give a dinner on his birthday, the twenty-ninth of June, and ask all his relations; but it was always a very modest, decent affair. But this modern fashion of champagne and sardines à l’huile—I don’t like to see it. Your other friend, that unfortunate young Ogaryóv, is even worse. Here he is, left to himself in Moscow, with his pockets full of money. He is constantly sending his coachman, Jeremy, for wine; and the coachman has no objection, because the dealer gives him a present.”
“Well, I did have lunch with Ogaryóv. But I don’t think my headache can be due to that. I think I will take a turn in the open air; that always does me good.”