“The Biriúloff girls know it all,”—put in Nadézhda Alexyéevna, hardly restraining her laughter.
“Everything is known on the following day,”—replied Véretyeff, with such a comical grimace, with such a perturbed sidelong glance, that even Vladímir Sergyéitch burst out laughing.
“I see that you possess great talent for mimicry,”—he remarked.
Véretyeff passed his hand over his face, his features resumed their ordinary expression, while Nadézhda Alexyéevna exclaimed:
“Oh, yes! he can mimic any one whom he wishes.... He’s a master hand at that.”
“And would you be able to imitate me, for example?”—inquired Vladímir Sergyéitch.
“I should think so!”—returned Nadézhda Alexyéevna:—“of course.”
“Akh, pray do me the favour to represent me,”—said Astákhoff, turning to Véretyeff.—“I beg that you will not stand on ceremony.”
“And so you too have believed her?”—replied Véretyeff, slightly screwing up one eye, and imparting to his voice the sound of Astákhoff’s voice, but so cautiously and slightly that only Nadézhda Alexyéevna noticed it, and bit her lips.—“Please do not believe her; she will tell you other untrue things about me.”
“And if you only knew what an actor he is!”—pursued Nadézhda Alexyéevna:—“he plays every conceivable sort of a part. And so splendidly! He is our stage-manager, and our prompter, and everything you like. It’s a pity that you are going away so soon.”