As Wilfrid seated himself, the innkeeper entered from the kitchen, where he had left the yamchik, who, when his meal was over, would curl himself up and sleep, peasant-fashion, upon the stove.
“Your Excellency has travelled far to-day?” asked Boris. His manner was in striking contrast with Nadia’s free and lively style. He stood in humble fashion, as if not liking, even in his own house, to sit down in the presence of his guest; but, invited by Wilfrid to a seat near the fire, he sat down, mentally contrasting the Englishman’s affability with the hauteur of the Russian grandees sleeping above.
“You have come far to-day?” he repeated.
“From,” replied Wilfrid, as he set to work with knife and fork, “from a place called—let me think—Via—Via—”
“Viaznika?” interjected Nadia.
“Ah! that’s the name—Viaznika.”
“You set off late in the day?” pursued the innkeeper.
“About noon.”
Boris looked as if Wilfrid had made a very puzzling statement.
“Your horses seem fleet enough,” he murmured.