Page:Anthology of Modern Slavonic Literature in Prose and Verse by Paul Selver.djvu/65

Rh He lost his wedding ring. His wife made a fuss about it. She wrote to her parents in Moscow. "Curse that Armenian!" thought Saranin.

Often he called to mind the Armenian counting the drops, pouring them out.

"Whew!"? exclaimed Saranin.

"Never mind, my dear, it was my mistake, I won't do anything for it."

Saranin also went to the doctor, who examined him with jocular remarks. He found nothing wrong.

Saranin would go to visit somebody or other,—the porter did not let him in at once.

"Who may you be?"

Saranin told him.

"I don't know,” said the porter. "Mr. So-and-so don't receive such people."

At business, in his department, they began by eyeing him askance and jeering. Especially the younger men.

Then they started murmuring, expressing disapproval.

The hall-porter began to remove Saranin's overcoat with open repugnance.

"There's a weedy little official for you," he