OLGA. Give him a pie, nurse. Ferapont, go, she’ll give you a pie.
FERAPONT. What?
ANFISA. Come on, gran’fer, Ferapont Spiridonitch. Come on. [Exeunt.]
MASHA. I don’t like this Mihail Potapitch or Ivanitch, Protopopov. We oughtn’t to invite him here.
IRINA. I never asked him.
MASHA. That’s all right.
[Enter CHEBUTIKIN followed by a soldier with a silver samovar; there is a rumble of dissatisfied surprise.]
OLGA. [Covers her face with her hands] A samovar! That’s awful! [Exit into the dining-room, to the table.]
IRINA. My dear Ivan Romanovitch, what are you doing!
TUZENBACH. [Laughs] I told you so!