Having finished the feed, a second cup of coffee and a roll and butter, Stiva got up, shaking the crumbs of the roll off his waistcoat; and, squaring his broad chest, he smiled joyously: not because there was anything particularly agreeable in his mind-the joyous smile was evoked by a good digestion, and by the gentle oscillations of the Galena Box.
Just then Small Stiva bustled back into the room and chirruped out a message. “The carriage is ready,” he said, “and there’s someone to see you with a petition.”
“Been here long?” asked Stepan Arkadyich.
“Half an hour.”
“How many times have I told you to tell me at once?”
“One must let you drink your coffee in peace,” answered Small Stiva in that affectionately tinny tone with which it was impossible to be angry. For the hundredth time, Stepan Arkadyich promised himself to have the Class III’s relevant circuits adjusted, to tend him more toward formal attendance to duties, and away from pleasant appeasement of perceived wishes-but he knew he never would do so.
“Well, show the person up at once,” said Oblonsky, frowning with vexation.
After dealing with the petitioner, Stepan Arkadyich took his hat and stopped to recollect whether he had forgotten anything. It appeared that he had forgotten nothing except what he wanted to forget-his wife.
“Ah, yes!” He bowed his head, and his handsome face assumed a harassed expression. “To go, or not to go!” he said to Small Stiva, who made a gesture charmingly imitative of a human shrug.