In the garden, in the shade of the spreading maples, stood an old, grey little summer-house. It had three small steps and a mossy floor, low walls, six roughly-cut posts, a sloping slate roof with six angles. Marta was sitting in the summer-house, still in her best clothes. She had on a brightly coloured dress with bows, which were very unbecoming to her. Her short sleeves showed her sharp, red elbows and her large, red hands. In other respects Marta was not unpleasant to look at. Her freckles did not spoil her face; she was even considered something of a beauty, especially by her own people, the Poles, of whom there were a number in the district. Marta was rolling cigarettes for Vershina. She was very anxious for Peredonov to see her and admire her. This desire gave her ingenuous face an expression of agitated affability. It was not that Marta was altogether in love with Peredonov but rather that Vershina wanted to get her a home—for her family was a large one. Marta was anxious to please Vershina, with whom she had lived several months, ever since the death of Vershina's old husband; not only on her own account but on that of her young brother, a schoolboy, who was also living with Vershina.
Vershina and Peredonov entered the summer-house. Peredonov greeted Marta rather gloomily, and sat down. He chose a place where one of the posts protected his back from the wind and kept the draught out of his ears. He glanced at Marta's yellow boots with their rose pompoms and thought that they were trying to entrap him into marrying Marta. He always thought this when he met girls who were pleasant to him. He only noticed faults in Marta—many freckles, large hands and a coarse skin. He knew that her father held a small farm on lease, about six versts from the town. The income was small and there were many children: Marta had left her preparatory school, his son was at school, the other children were still smaller.
"Let me give you some beer," said Vershina quickly.
There were some glasses, two bottles of beer and a tin box of granulated sugar on the table, and a spoon which had been dipped in the beer lay beside them.
"All right," said Peredonov abruptly.
Vershina glanced at Marta, who filled the glass and handed it to Peredonov. A half-pleased, half-timorous smile passed over her face as she did this.
"Put some sugar into the beer," suggested Vershina.
Marta passed Peredonov the tin sugar-box. But Peredonov exclaimed irritatedly:
"No, sugar makes it disgusting!"
"What do you mean?" said Vershina, "sugar makes it delicious."