‘Oh, Onisim Sergeitch, I don’t want to be friendly with him again ...’
‘Well, and you needn’t—who’s talking of it? You’ve only to say a couple of words; to say, Why does your honour grieve? ... give over.... That’s all.’
‘Really, Onisim Sergeitch ...’
‘Why, am I to go down on my knees to you, eh? All right—there, I’m on my knees ...’
‘But really ...’
‘Why, what a girl it is! Even that doesn’t touch her! ...’
Vassilissa at last consented, put a kerchief on her head, and went out with Onisim.
‘You wait here a little, in the passage,’ he said to her, when they reached Pyetushkov’s abode, ‘and I’ll go and let the master know ...’
He went in to Ivan Afanasiitch. Pyetushkov was standing in the middle of the room, both hands in his pockets, his legs excessively wide apart; he was slightly swaying backwards and forwards. His face was hot, and his eyes were sparkling.
‘Hullo, Onisim,’ he faltered amiably, articulating the consonants very indistinctly and thickly: ‘hullo, my lad. Ah, my lad, when you weren’t here ... he, he, he ...’ Pyetushkov laughed and made a sudden duck forward with his nose. ‘Yes, it’s an accomplished fact, he, he, he.... However,’ he added, trying to assume a dignified air, ‘I’m all right.’ He tried to lift his foot, but almost fell over, and to preserve his dignity pronounced in a deep bass, ‘Boy, bring my pipe!’