Tríshka. But a tailor has learned how to do it, madam, and I haven’t.
Mrs. Uncouth. How dare you contradict me! One tailor has learned it from another; that one from a third, and so on. But from whom did the first tailor learn? Talk, stupid!
Tríshka. I guess the first tailor made a worse caftan than I.
Mitrofán (running in). I called dad. He sent word he’ll be here in a minute.
Mrs. Uncouth. Go fetch him by force, if you can’t by kindness.
Mitrofán. Here is dad.
SCENE 3. THE SAME AND UNCOUTH
Mrs. Uncouth. You have been hiding from me! Now see yourself, sir, what I have come to through your indulgence! What do you think of our son’s new dress for his uncle’s betrothal? What do you think of the caftan that Tríshka has gotten up?
Uncouth (timidly stammering). A li-ittle baggy.
Mrs. Uncouth. You are baggy yourself, you wiseacre!