When Foma arrived at his godfather’s house, he found Luba alone. She came out to meet him, and it was evident that she was either ill or out of humour; her eyes were flashing feverishly and were surrounded with black circles. Feeling cold, she muffled herself in a warm shawl and said with a smile:
“It is good that you’ve come! For I was sitting here alone; it is lonesome—I don’t feel like going anywhere. Will you drink tea?”
“I will. What is the matter with you, are you ill?”
“Go to the dining-room, and I’ll tell them to bring the samovar,” she said, not answering his question.
He went into one of the small rooms of the house, whose two windows overlooked the garden. In the middle of the room stood an oval table, surrounded with old-fashioned, leather-covered chairs; on one partition hung a clock in a long case with a glass door, in the corner was a cupboard for dishes, and opposite the windows, by the walls, was an oaken sideboard as big as a fair-sized room.
“Are you coming from the banquet?” asked Luba, entering.
Foma nodded his head mutely.
“Well, how was it? Grand?”
“It was terrible!” Foma smiled. “I sat there as if on hot coals. They all looked there like peacocks, while I looked like a barn-owl.”
Luba was taking out dishes from the cupboard and said nothing to Foma.