“Yes.”
Vladímir Sergyéitch began to narrate what a fine garden there was in his neighbourhood, belonging to a wealthy landed proprietor named N***.—The head gardener, a German, received in wages alone two thousand rubles, silver[16]—he said, among other things.
“And what is the name of that gardener?”—inquired Iván Ílitch, suddenly.
“I don’t remember,—Meyer or Müller, I think. But why do you ask?”
“For no reason in particular, sir,”—replied Iván Ílitch.—“To find out his name.”
Vladímir Sergyéitch continued his narration. The little girls, Mikhaíl Nikoláitch’s daughters, entered, sat down quietly, and quietly began to listen....
A servant made his appearance at the door, had announced that Egór Kapítonitch had arrived.
“Ah! Ask him in, ask him in!”—exclaimed Ipátoff.
There entered a short, fat little old man, one of the sort of people who are called squat or dumpy, with a puffy and, at the same time, a wrinkled little face, after the fashion of a baked apple. He wore a grey hussar jacket with black braiding and a standing collar; his full coffee-coloured velveteen trousers ended far above his ankles.
“Good morning, my most respected Egór Kapítonitch,”—exclaimed Ipátoff, advancing to meet him.—“We haven’t seen each other for a long time.”