Oblomov's face beamed as he walked home. His blood was boiling, and a light was shining in his eyes. He entered his room and at pnce t the radiance disappeared as his eyes, full of disgusted astonishment, became glued to one piarticular spot. That particular spot was the arm-chair, wherein was snugly ensconced Tarantiev.

"Why is it I never find you here?" the visitor asked sternly. "Why are you always gadding about? That old fool Zakhar has quite got out of hand. I asked him for a morsel of food and a glass of vodka, and he refused me both!"

"I have been for a walk in the park," replied Oblomov coldly. For the moment he had forgotten the murky atmosphere wherein he had spent so much of his life. And now, in a twinkling, Tarantiev had brought him tumbling from the clouds! His immediate thought was that the visitor might insist on remaining to dinner, and so