MASHA. Only Natasha mustn’t get to know of these losses.
IRINA. I expect it will be all the same to her.
[CHEBUTIKIN, who has only just got out of bed—he was resting after dinner—comes into the dining-room and combs his beard. He then sits by the table and takes a newspaper from his pocket.]
MASHA. Here he is.... Has he paid his rent?
IRINA. [Laughs] No. He’s been here eight months and hasn’t paid a copeck. Seems to have forgotten.
MASHA. [Laughs] What dignity in his pose! [They all laugh. A pause.]
IRINA. Why are you so silent, Alexander Ignateyevitch?
VERSHININ. I don’t know. I want some tea. Half my life for a tumbler of tea: I haven’t had anything since morning.
CHEBUTIKIN. Irina Sergeyevna!
IRINA. What is it?