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"Are there any papers from the office?" asked Stepan

Arkadyevitch, taking the telegram and seating himself at the

looking-glass.

"On the table," replied Matvey, glancing with inquiring sympathy

at his master; and, after a short pause, he added with a sly

smile, "They've sent from the carriage-jobbers."

Stepan Arkadyevitch made no reply, he merely glanced at Matvey in

the looking-glass. In the glance, in which their eyes met in the

looking-glass, it was clear that they understood one another.

Stepan Arkadyevitch's eyes asked: "Why do you tell me that? don't

you know?"

Matvey put his hands in his jacket pockets, thrust out one leg,

and gazed silently, good-humoredly, with a faint smile, at his

master.

"I told them to come on Sunday, and till then not to trouble you

or themselves for nothing," he said. He had obviously prepared

the sentence beforehand.