The canon put his hand to his ear and said,—
"Hei?"
"I am just dying from laughter," remarked the inspector to Pani Skorabevski.
"Perhaps a cigar?"
"Perhaps coffee?"
"No, I cannot, from laughter."
The Skorabevskis laughed through politeness toward the inspector, though they had to listen to that narrative every Sunday. The joyousness was general; when it was interrupted by a low, timid voice from outside the porch, which said,—
"May He be praised!"
Pan Skorabevski rose at once, passed along the porch, and inquired,—
"But who is there?"