GLASHA. Master, Tihon Ivanitch!
KABANOV. What is it now?
GLASHA. There's something wrong at home, sir!
KABANOV. Mercy on us! It's one thing on top of another! Tell me, what is it?
GLASHA. Why, your good lady....
KABANOV. Well, what? Is she dead?
GLASHA. No, sir, she has disappeared; we can't find her anywhere.
KABANOV. Kuligin! we must run and search for her. Do you know what I am afraid of? That she may be driven in her misery to lay hands on herself! She grieves and grieves,—ah, God! It rends my heart to see her. What were you thinking of? Has she been gone long?
GLASHA. No, sir, not long! It's we're to blame, of course; we didn't keep an eye on her every minute. Though it's true, to be sure, the most watchful will be caught napping sooner or later.
KABANOV. Well, don't stand there doing nothing; bestir yourself! (Exit Glasha.) And let us go too, Kuligin!