"But how much would connoisseurs give for it?" "That I could not say. Give it to me, and I will show it to some one."
"Och, Petr Vassilich."
"And if I sell it, you shall have half the hundred rubles. Whatever there is over, that is mine!"
"Och!"
"You need not keep on saying 'Och'!"
They drank their tea, bargaining shamelessly, looking at one another with the eyes of conspirators. That the shopman was completely under the thumb of the old man was plain, and when the latter went away, he would say to me:
"Now don't you go chattering to the mistress about this deal."
When they had finished talking about the sale of the icon, the shopman would ask:
"And what news is there in the town, Petr Vassilich?"
Smoothing his beard with his yellow fingers, laying bare his oily lips, the old man told stories of the lives of the merchants. He spoke of commercial successes, of feasts, of illnesses, of weddings, and of the infidelities of husbands and wives. He served up these greasy stories quickly and skilfully, as a good cook serves up pancakes, with a sauce of hissing laughter. The shopman's round face grew dark with envy and rapture. His eyes were wide with dreamy wistfulness, as he said complainingly: