"He will, Gavríla Andréitch, he 'll infallibly kill me."
"He will.... Well, we 'll see about that. What makes thee say, 'He 'll kill me'? Has he the right to kill thee, pray? Judge for thyself."
"Why, I don't know, Gavríla Andréitch, whether he has a right or not."
"What a girl! I suppose thou hast not made him any promise...."
"What do you mean, sir?"
The major-domo paused for a while, and thought:
"Thou art a meek soul!"—"Well, very good,"—he added; "we will have another talk about it, and now, go thy way, Tatyána; I see that thou really art an obedient girl."
Tatyána turned, leaned lightly against the door-jamb, and left the room.
"But perhaps the mistress will have forgotten about this wedding by to-morrow,"—meditated the major-domo. "Why have I been alarmed? We 'll pinion that insolent fellow if he makes any trouble—we 'll send word to the police.... Ustínya Feódorovna!"—he shouted in a loud voice to his wife, "prepare the samovár, my good woman...."
All that day, Tatyána hardly quitted the laundry. At first she wept, then she wiped away her tears, and set to work as of yore. Kapíton sat until the dead of night in a drinking establishment with a friend of gloomy aspect, and narrated to him in detail how he had lived in Peter with a certain gentleman who had everything that heart could desire, and was a great stickler for order, and withal permitted himself one little delinquency: he was wont to get awfully fuddled, and as for the feminine sex, he simply had all the qualities to attract... His gloomy comrade merely expressed assent; but when Kapíton announced, at last, that, owing to certain circumstances, he must lay violent hands upon himself on the morrow, the gloomy comrade remarked that it was time to go to bed. And they parted churlishly, and in silence.