"Thou 'rt a nice one,"—remarked Gavríla, and paused awhile.—"A nice person, there 's no denying that!"
Kapíton merely shrugged his shoulders. "And art thou any better, pray?" he said to himself.
"Come, now, just look at thyself; come, look,"—went on Gavríla reprovingly;—"Well, art not thou ashamed of thyself?"
Kapíton surveyed with a calm glance his threadbare and tattered coat and his patched trousers, scanned with particular attention his shoes perforated with holes, especially the one on whose toe his right foot rested in so dandified a manner, and again fixed his eyes on the major-domo.
"What of it, sir?"
"What of it, sir?"—repeated Gavríla.—"What of it, sir? And thou sayest: 'What of it, sir?' to boot! Thou lookest like the devil,—Lord forgive me, sinful man that I am,—that 's what thou lookest like."
Kapíton winked his little eyes briskly.
"Curse away, curse away, Gavríla Andréitch," he thought to himself.
"Thou hast been drunk again, apparently,"—began Gavríla;—"drunk again, surely? Hey? Come, answer."
"Owing to the feebleness of my health, I have succumbed to spirituous beverages, in fact,"—returned Kapíton.