I described my evening at the Zasyekins' minutely to my father.
Half attentively, half carelessly, he listened to me, sitting on a garden seat, drawing in the sand with his cane.
Now and then he laughed, shot bright, droll glances at me, and spurred me on with short questions and assents.
At first I could not bring myself even to utter the name of Zinaida, but I could not restrain myself long, and began singing her praises.
My father still laughed; then he grew thoughtful, stretched, and got up.
I remembered that as he came out of the house he had ordered his horse to be saddled.
He was a splendid horseman, and, long before Rarey, had the secret of breaking in the most vicious horses.
'Shall I come with you, father?' I asked.
'No,' he answered, and his face resumed its ordinary expression of friendly indifference. 'Go alone, if you like; and tell the coachman I'm not going.'
He turned his back on me and walked rapidly away. I looked after him; he disappeared through the gates. I saw his hat moving along beside the fence; he went into the Zasyekins'.