Thecoachmanpulleduphisfourhorsesandlookedroundtotheright，toafieldofrye，wheresomepeasantsweresittingnearatelega。Thecountinghouseclerkwasjustgoingtojumpdown，butonsecondthoughtheshoutedperemptorilytothepeasantsinstead，andbeckonedtothemtocomeup。Thewind，thatseemedtoblowastheydrove，droppedwhenthecarriagestoodstill；gadfliessettledonthesteaminghorsesthatangrilyshookthemoff。Themetallicclankofawhetstoneagainstascythe，thatcametothemfromthetelega，ceased。Oneofthepeasantsgotupandcametowardthecarriage。
`Well，youareslow！’thecountinghouseclerkshoutedangrilytothepeasantwhowassteppingslowlywithhisbarefeetovertherutsoftheunbeaten，sun-bakedroad。`Comealong，do！’
Acurly-headedoldmanwithabitofbasttiedroundhishair，andhisbentbackdarkwithperspiration，cametowardthecarriage，quickeninghissteps，andtookholdofthemudguardwithhissunburnedhand。
`Vozdvizhenskoe-themanorhouse？TheCount’s？’herepeated。`Goontotheendofthisslope。Thenturntotheleft。Straightalongtheavenue，andyou’llcomerightuponit。Butwhomdoyouwant？TheCounthimself？’
`Well，aretheyathome，mygoodman？’DaryaAlexandrovnasaidvaguely，notknowinghowtoaskaboutAnna，evenofthispeasant。