He arose and watched her spread the table as he stood to one side.
"The price of fellows of our kind is a nickel a bundle, a hundred in a bundle," he said with a smile.
The mother suddenly pitied him. He now pleased her more.
"You don't judge right, host," she said. "A man mustn't agree to the price put upon him by people from the outside, who need nothing of him except his blood. You, knowing yourself within, must put your own estimate on yourself—your price, not for your enemies, but for your friends."
"What friends have we?" the peasant exclaimed softly. "Up to the first piece of bread."
"And I say that the people have friends."
"Yes, they have, but not here—that's the trouble," Stepan deliberated.
"Well, then create them here."
Stepan reflected a while. "We'll try."
"Sit down at the table," Tatyana invited her.