He lived, I knew,
an immoral and self-indulgent life, and his hobby was the quite
indiscriminate collection of modern Russian paintings, his walls being
plastered with innumerable works by Benois, Somoff, Dobeijinsky,
Yakofflyeff, and Lanceray. He had also two Serovs, a fine Vrubel, and
several Ryepins. He had also a fine private collection of indecent
drawings.
"I really don't know what on earth we're going to this man for," I said
discontentedly. "I was weak this afternoon."
"No, you weren't," said Bohun. "And I'll tell you frankly that I'm jolly
glad not to be having a meal at home to-night. Do you know, I don't
believe I can stick that flat much longer!"
"Why, are things worse?" I asked.
"It's getting so jolly creepy," Bohun said. "Everything goes on normally
enough outwardly, but I suppose there's been some tremendous row. Of
course I don't knew any-thing about that. After what you told me the
other night though, I seem to see everything twice its natural size."
"What do you mean?" I asked him.
"You know when something queer's going on inside a house you seem to
notice the furniture of the rooms much more than you ordinarily do.
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