“Open the gate! You devils, demons, sinners!”
Madame Doulebova tried to soothe Shabalov, who justified himself:
“Forgive me, Zinaida Grigorievna. It is most annoying. If I had come myself I shouldn’t have minded waiting, though even then it would have been discourteous—being, after all, an official. And here the higher authorities have announced their coming, and these people pay absolutely no attention to it.”
At last the small gate opened, suddenly and noiselessly. A boy, sunburnt and barefoot, in a white shirt and short white breeches, stood on the threshold. The angry Doulebov said in his thin, shrill voice:
“Is this Trirodov’s school?”
“Yes,” said the boy.
The visitors entered and found themselves in a small glade. Three barefoot girls slowly came to meet them. These were instructresses. Nadezhda Vestchezerova looked with her large dark eyes at Madame Doulebova, who whispered to the Vice-Governor:
“Have a look at her. This girl had a scandal in her life, but he’s taken her on.”
Doulebova knew every one in town, and she knew especially well those who have had an unpleasant experience of some sort.
Presently Trirodov appeared in a white summer suit. He looked with an ironic smile at the gaily dressed party of visitors.