'Wait a bit, wait a bit, father,' said Mardary Apollonitch, not yet leaving go of my hand; 'don't go … I have sent for some vodka for you.'
'I never drink it, sir,' the priest muttered in confusion, blushing up to his ears.
'What nonsense!' answered Mardary Apollonitch; 'Mishka! Yushka! vodka for the father!'
Yushka, a tall, thin old man of eighty, came in with a glass of vodka on a dark-coloured tray, with a few patches of flesh-colour on it, all that was left of the original enamel.
The priest began to decline.
'Come, drink it up, father, no ceremony; it's too bad of you,' observed the landowner reproachfully.
The poor young man had to obey.
'There, now, father, you may go.'
The priest took leave.
'There, there, that'll do, get along with you….'