reason that it was too amiable, it languished again. It was necessary to have recourse to an unfailing, never changing subject—gossip.
"Don't you think that there is something Louis XV. about Tushkievitch? " asked he, indicating a handsome, light-haired young man, who was standing near the table.
"Oh, yes! he 's quite in the style of the drawing-room, and that is why he is here so often."
This subject sustained the conversation, since it consisted wholly of hints regarding something which could not be treated openly in that drawing-room, in other words, Tushkievitch's relations with the Princess Betsy.
Around the samovar, the conversation hesitated for some time upon three inevitable subjects,—the news of the day, the theater, and a lawsuit which was to be tried the next day. At last the same subject arose that was occupying the other group—gossip.
"Have you heard that Maltishcheva—that is, the mother, not the daughter—has had a costume in diable rose?"
"Is it possible? No! That is delicious."
"I am astonished that with her sense,—for she is certainly not stupid,—she does not perceive how ridiculous she is."
Every one found something in which to criticize and tear to pieces the unfortunate Madame Maltishcheva; and the conversation grew lively, brilliant, and gay, like a flaming pyre.
The Princess Betsy's husband, a tall, good-natured man, a passionate collector of engravings, hearing that his wife had guests, came into the drawing-room before going to his club, and desired to show himself in her circle. Noiselessly, on the thick carpet, he approached the Princess Miagkaya.
"How did you like Nilsson?" he asked.
"Akh! Do you steal in upon a body that way? How you startled me!" she cried. "Don't speak to me about the opera, I beg of you; you don't know any-
