Fragment VIII
... Around a samovar, around a real samovar, out of which the steam was rising as out of an engine—the glass on the lamp had even grown dim, there was so much steam. And the cups were the same, blue outside and white inside, very pretty little cups, a wedding present. My wife's sister gave them—she is a very kind and good woman.
"Is it possible they are all whole?" asked I, incredulously, mixing the sugar in my glass with a clean silver spoon.
"One was broken," said my wife, absently; she was holding the tap open just then and the water was running out easily and prettily.
I laughed.
"What's it about?" asked my brother.
"Oh, nothing. Wheel me into the study just once more. You may as well trouble yourself for the sake of a hero. You idled away your time while I was away, but now that is over. I'll bring you to order," and I began singing, as a joke of course,—"My friends, we're bravely hurrying towards the foe...."
They understood the joke and smiled, only my wife did not lift up her face, she was wiping the cups with a clean embroidered cloth. And in the study I saw once again the light-blue wall-paper, a lamp with a green shade and a table with a water-bottle upon it. And it was a little dusty.
"Pour me some water out of this," ordered I, merrily.
"But you've just had tea."