Quantities of
pleasant things were planned, and Tamara found her days arranged for a
week ahead.
That night, as they drove to Prince Milasl?vski's dinner, an annoying
sense of excitement possessed Tamara. She refused to ask herself why.
Curiosity to see the house of this strange man--most likely--in any
case, emotion enough to make her eyes bright.
It was one of the oldest houses in Petersburg, built in the time of
Catherine, about 1768, and although in a highly florid rococo style of
decoration, as though something gorgeous and barbaric had amalgamated
with the Louis XV., still it had escaped the terrible wave of 1850
vandalism, and stood, except for a few Empire rooms, a monument of its
time.
Everything about it interested Tamara. The strange Cossack servants in
the hall; the splendid staircase of stone and marble, and then finally
they reached the salons above.
"One can see no woman lives here," she thought, though the one they
entered was comfortable enough. Huge English leather armchairs elbowed
some massively gilt seats of the time of Nicholas I., and an ugly
English high fender with its padded seat, surrounded the blazing log
fire.
The guests were all assembled, but host, there was not!
"What an impertinence to keep them waiting like this," Tamara thought!
However, no one seemed to mind but herself, and they all stood laughing
or sitting on the fender in the best of spirits.
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