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?
NIKÍTA. Never mind what's been! Of course one does have some fun with a cook now and then to while away the time. One plays the concertina and gets her to dance. What of that?
PETER. Don't shuffle, Nikíta, but answer your father straight out.
AKÍM [solemnly] You can hide it from men but not from God, Nikíta. You, what d'you call it—think, I mean, and don't tell lies. She's an orphan; so, you see, any one is free to insult her. An orphan, you see. So you should say what's rightest.