On the stairs he met two of the Marshal's boys returning from a walk with their tutor. Peredonov looked at them with morose curiosity.
"How clean they are!" he thought. "There's not a speck of dirt even in their ears. How alive they are, and they're trained to hold themselves straight as a taut fiddle-string. And they're never even whipped, if you please," thought Peredonov.
And he looked angrily after them as they ran up the stairs, chattering gaily. It astonished Peredonov that the tutor treated them as equals—he did not frown at them nor did he scold them.
When Peredonov returned home he found Varvara in the drawing-room with a book in her hands, which was a rare occurrence. Varvara was reading a cookery book, the only one she had, and which she sometimes looked into. The book was old, ragged and had black binding. The binding caught Peredonov's eye, and it depressed him.
"What are you reading, Varvara?" he asked angrily.
"What? Can't you see? A cookery book," replied Varvara. "I haven't time to read nonsense."
"Why a cookery book?" asked Peredonov in fright.
"What do you mean, why? I want to find some new dishes for you—you're always grumbling about the food," said Varvara with a sort of sarcastic self-satisfaction.
"I won't eat from a black book," announced Peredonov decisively, and quickly tore the book from Varvara's hands and took it into the bedroom.