TheMashkinUplandwasmown，thelastswathsfinished，thepeasantshadputontheircoatsandweregailytrudginghome。Levingotonhishorse，and，partingregretfullyfromthepeasants，rodehomeward。Onthehillsidehelookedback；hecouldnotseetheminthemistthathadrisenfromthevalley；hecouldonlyheartheirrough，good-humoredvoices，theirlaughter，andthesoundofclankingscythes。
SergeiIvanovichhadlongagofinisheddinner，andwasdrinkingicedlemonadeinhisownroom，lookingthroughthereviewsandpaperswhichhehadjustreceivedbypost，whenLevinrushedintotheroom，talkingmerrily，withhiswetandmattedhairstickingtohisforehead，andhisbackandchestgrimedandmoist。
`Wemowedthewholemeadow！Oh，itisfine，wonderful！Andhowhaveyoubeengettingon？’saidLevin，completelyforgettingthedisagreeableconversationofthepreviousday。
`Dearme！Whatyoulooklike！’saidSergeiIvanovich，forthefirstmomentlookingroundwithsomedissatisfaction。`Andthedoor-doshutthedoor！’hecried。`Youmusthaveletinadozenatleast。’
SergeiIvanovichcouldnotendureflies，andinhisownroomheneveropenedthewindowexceptatnight，andcarefullykeptthedoorshut。