"I will bring you one directly," answered my wife, and did not come back for a long time, and the looking-glass was brought by the maid. I looked into it, and—I had seen myself before in the train, at the station—it was the same face, grown older a little, but the most ordinary face. While they, I believe, expected me to cry out and faint—so glad were they when I asked calmly,—
"What is there so unusual in me?"
Laughing louder and louder, my sister left the room hurriedly, and my brother said with calm assurance: "Yes, you have not changed much, only grown slightly bald."
"You can be thankful that my head is not broken," answered I, unconcernedly. "But where do they all disappear?—first one, then another. Wheel me about the rooms, please. What a comfortable armchair, it does not make the slightest sound. How much did it cost? You bet I won't spare the money: I will buy myself such a pair of legs, better.... My bicycle!"
It was hanging on the wall, quite new, only the tyres were limp for want of pumping. A tiny bit of mud had dried to the tyre of the back wheel—the last time I had ridden it. My brother was silent and did not move my chair, and I understood his silence and irresoluteness.
"Only four officers remained alive in our regiment," said I, surlily. "I am very lucky.... You can take it for yourself—take it away to-morrow."
"All right, I will take it," agreed my brother submissively. "Yes, you are lucky. Half of the town is in mourning. While legs—that is really...."
"Of course I am not a postman."
My brother stopped suddenly and asked,—