One of them the mother knew. He was Yakob, the son of the factory
watchman, Somov. The other, with a sharp-featured face, high forehead,
and curly hair, was unknown to her; but he, too, was not terrible.
Finally Pavel appeared, and with him two men, both of whose faces
she recognized as those of workmen in the factory.
"You've prepared the samovar! That's fine. Thank you!" said Pavel
as he saw what his mother had done.
"Perhaps I should get some vodka," she suggested, not knowing how
to express her gratitude to him for something which as yet she did
not understand.
"No, we don't need it!" he responded, removing his coat and smiling
affectionately at her.
It suddenly occurred to her that her son, by way of jest, had
purposely exaggerated the danger of the gathering.
"Are these the ones they call illegal people?" she whispered.
"The very ones!" answered Pavel, and passed into the room.
She looked lovingly after him and thought to herself condescendingly:
"Mere children!"
When the samovar boiled, and she brought it into the room, she found
the guests sitting in a close circle around the table, and Natasha
installed in the corner under the lamp with a book in her hands.
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