‘Whom were you talking to?’
‘What’s that to you?’
‘I only asked.’
Pyetushkov came out of the back room in a parti-coloured smoking-jacket with tucked-up sleeves, and a strainer in his hand.
‘Oh, a friend of mine,’ answered Vassilissa.
‘What friend?’
‘Oh, Piotr Petrovitch.’
‘Piotr Petrovitch? ... what Piotr Petrovitch?’
‘He’s one of your lot. He’s got such a difficult name.’
‘Bublitsyn?’