Chapter XIX

           

           IhadnotannouncedmyarrivaltoStroeve,andwhenIrangthebellofhisstudio,onopeningthedoorhimself,foramomenthedidnotknowme.Thenhegaveacryofdelightedsurpriseanddrewmein.Itwascharmingtobewelcomedwithsomucheagerness.Hiswifewasseatednearthestoveathersewing,andsheroseasIcamein.Heintroducedme.

           "Don’tyouremember?"hesaidtoher."I’vetalkedtoyouabouthimoften."Andthentome:"Butwhydidn’tyouletmeknowyouwerecoming?Howlonghaveyoubeenhere?Howlongareyougoingtostay?Whydidn’tyoucomeanhourearlier,andwewouldhavedinedtogether?"

           Hebombardedmewithquestions.Hesatmedowninachair,pattingmeasthoughIwereacushion,pressedcigarsuponme,cakes,wine.Hecouldnotletmealone.Hewasheart-brokenbecausehehadnowhisky,wantedtomakecoffeeforme,rackedhisbrainforsomethinghecouldpossiblydoforme,andbeamedandlaughed,andintheexuberanceofhisdelightsweatedateverypore.

           "Youhaven’tchanged,"Isaid,smiling,asIlookedathim.

           HehadthesameabsurdappearancethatIremembered.Hewasafatlittleman,withshortlegs,youngstill—hecouldnothavebeenmorethanthirty—butprematurelybald.Hisfacewasperfectlyround,andhehadaveryhighcolour,awhiteskin,redcheeks,andredlips.Hiseyeswereblueandroundtoo,heworelargegold-rimmedspectacles,andhiseyebrowsweresofairthatyoucouldnotseethem.Heremindedyouofthosejolly,fatmerchantsthatRubenspainted.

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