Akím. That's it, that's it! It's just as you Say, Ignátitch, it's just what d'you call it. 'Cos why? If you go into service, it's as good as if you had sold yourself, they say. That will be all right. I mean he may stay and serve his time, only he must, what d'you call it, get married. I mean—so: you let him off for a little while, that he may, what d'you call it?
Peter. Yes, we could manage that.
Matryóna. Ah, but it's not yet settled between ourselves, Peter Ignátitch. I'll speak to you as I would before God, and you may judge between my old man and me. He goes on harping on that marriage. But just ask—who it is he wants him to marry. If it were a girl of the right sort now—I am not my child's enemy, but the wench is not honest.
Akím. No, that's wrong! Wrong, I say. 'Cos why? She, that same girl—it's my son as has offended, offended the girl I mean.
Peter. How offended?
Akím. That's how. She's what d'you call it, with him, with my son, Nikíta. With Nikíta, what d'you call it, mean.
Matryóna. You wait a bit, my tongue runs smoother—let me tell it. You know, this lad of ours lived at the railway before he came to you. There was a girl there as kept dangling after him. A girl of no account, you know; her name's Marína. She used to cook for the men. So now this same girl accuses our son, Nikíta, that he, so to say, deceived her.
Peter. Well, there's nothing good in that.
Matryóna. But she's no honest girl herself; she runs after the fellows like a common slut.
Akím. There you are again, old woman, and it's not at all what d'you call it, it's all not what d'you call it, I mean....