Old Rogatchyóff was not at home that day. He had gone to the county town, to buy seersucker for kaftans to clothe his retainers. Pável Afanásievitch was sitting in his study, and inspecting a collection of faded butterflies. Elevating his eyebrows, and thrusting forth his lips, he was cautiously turning about with a pin the large wings of the "nocturnal sphinx," when suddenly, he felt a small but heavy hand on his shoulder. He glanced round—before him stood Vasíly.
"Good morning, Vasíly Ivánovitch,"—said he, not without some surprise.
Vasíly looked at him and sat down in front of him on a chair.
Pável Afanásievitch was about to smile ... but glanced at Vasíly, relaxed, opened his mouth, and clasped his hands.
"Come, tell me, Pável Afanásievitch,"—began Vasíly, suddenly:—"do you intend to have the wedding soon?"
"I?... soon .... of course.... I, so far as I am concerned .... however, that is as you and your sister choose.... I, for my part, am ready to-morrow, if you like."
"Very good, very good. You are a very impatient man, Pável Afanásievitch."
"How so, sir?"
"Listen,"—added Vasíly Ivánovitch, rising to his feet:—"I know everything; you understand me, and I order you to marry Olga without delay, to-morrow."