“And order the estate-clerk to present to me the report for the last month. But thou hast done well,”—the gentleman went on, casting a glance around him,—“in whitewashing the walls. Everything seems cleaner.”
The overseer silently swept a glance around the walls also.
“Well, go now.”
The overseer made his obeisance and left the room.
The gentleman stretched himself.
“Hey!”—he shouted,—“Give me some tea!... ’Tis time to go to bed.”
His servant went to the other side of the partition, and speedily returned with a glass of tea, a bundle of town cracknels, and a cream-jug on an iron tray. The gentleman began to drink tea, but before he had had time to swallow two mouthfuls, the noise of persons entering resounded from an adjoining room, and some one’s squeaking voice inquired:
“Is Vladímir Sergyéitch Astákhoff at home? Can he be seen?”
Vladímir Sergyéitch (that was the name of the young man in the paletot) cast a glance of surprise at his man, and said in a hurried whisper:
“Go, find out who it is.”