Leoníd Fyódoritch. What happens to him?
Tánya. Something of a kind like spiritalism. You ask any of the servants. As soon as he gets drowsy at the table, the table begins to tremble, and creak like that: tuke, ... tuke! All the servants have heard it.
Leoníd Fyódoritch. Why, it's the very thing I was saying to Sergéy Ivánitch this morning! Yes?...
Tánya. Or else ... when was it?... Oh, yes, last Wednesday. We sat down to dinner, and the spoon just jumps into his hand of itself!
Leoníd Fyódoritch. Ah, that is interesting! Jumps into his hand? When he was drowsing?
Tánya. That I didn't notice. I think he was, though.
Leoníd Fyódoritch. Yes?...
Tánya. And that's what I'm afraid of, and what I wanted to ask you about. May not some harm come of it? To live one's life together, and him having such a thing in him!
Leoníd Fyódoritch (smiling). No, you need not be afraid, there is nothing bad in that. It only proves him to be a medium—simply a medium. I knew him to be a medium before this.
Tánya. So that's what it is! And I was afraid!