Suddenly Nikolay broke into a loud guffaw, his mouth opening wide.
"What is it?" the Little Russian asked in surprise, stopping in front of him.
"It struck me that he'd be a fool who'd want to insult you!" Nikolay declared, shaking his head.
"Why, how can you insult me?" asked the Little Russian, shrugging his shoulders.
"I don't know," said Vyesovshchikov, grinning good-naturedly or perhaps condescendingly. "I only wanted to say that a man must feel mighty ashamed of himself after he'd insulted you."
"There now! See where you got to!" laughed the Little Russian.
"Andriusha!" the mother called from the kitchen. "Come get the samovar. It's ready!"
Andrey walked out of the room, and Vyesovshchikov, left alone, looked about, stretched out his foot sheathed in a coarse, heavy boot, looked at it, bent down, and felt the stout calf of his legs. Then he raised one hand to his face, carefully examined the palm, and turned it around. His short-fingered hand was thick, and covered with yellowish hair. He waved it in the air, and arose.
When Andrey brought in the samovar, Vyesovshchikov was standing before the mirror, and greeted him with these words:
"It's a long time since I've seen my face." Then he laughed and added: "It's an ugly face I have!"