“Of course it is little! In old days we sometimes made more than a hundred.”
“H’m! I should never have thought it was possible to earn such a sum by these jobs. Fifty roubles! It is not every man that earns as much! Pray drink your wine. . . .”
The matchmaker drained her glass without winking. Stytchkin looked her over from head to foot in silence, then said:
“Fifty roubles. . . . Why, that is six hundred roubles a year. . . . Please take some more. . . With such dividends, you know, Lyubov Grigoryevna, you would have no difficulty in making a match for yourself. . . .”
“For myself,” laughed the matchmaker, “I am an old woman.”
“Not at all. . . . You have such a figure, and your face is plump and fair, and all the rest of it.”
The matchmaker was embarrassed. Stytchkin was also embarrassed and sat down beside her.
“You are still very attractive,” said he; “if you met with a practical, steady, careful husband, with his salary and your earnings you might even attract him very much, and you’d get on very well together. . . .”
“Goodness knows what you are saying, Nikolay Nikolayitch.”
“Well, I meant no harm. . . .”