[Sits down and takes out his tobacco-pouch.
Peter (in a low, reproachful voice). What are you thinking about—have you no manners? Your father is going to speak to you, and you sit down and fool about with tobacco. Come, get up!
[NIKÍTA rises, leans carelessly with his elbow on the table, and smiles.
Akím. It seems there's a complaint, you know, about you, Nikíta—a complaint, I mean, a complaint.
Nikíta. Who's been complaining?
Akím. Complaining? It's a maid, an orphan maid, complaining, I mean. It's her, you know—-a complaint against you, from Marína, I mean.
Nikíta (laughs). Well, that's a good one. What's the complaint? And who's told you—she herself?
Akím. It's I am asking you, and you must now, what d'you call it, give me an answer. Have you got mixed up with the lass, I mean—mixed up, you know?
Nikíta. I don't know what you mean. What's up?
Akím. Foolin', I mean, what d'you call it? foolin'. Have you been foolin' with her, I mean?