“Yes, guilty! You must desire to be better.”
“But do I not wish it?” exclaimed Foma.
The girl was about to tell him something, but at this time the bell began to ring somewhere, and she said in a low voice, leaning back in her chair:
“It’s father.”
“I would not feel sorry if he stayed away a little longer,” said Foma. “I wish I could listen to you some more. You speak so very oddly.”
“Ah! my children, my doves!” exclaimed Yakov Tarasovich, appearing in the doorway. “You’re drinking tea? Pour out some tea for me, Lugava!”
Sweetly smiling, and rubbing his hands, he sat down near Foma and asked, playfully jostling him in the side:
“What have you been cooing about?”
“So—about different trifles,” answered Luba.
“I haven’t asked you, have I?” said her father to her, with a grimace. “You just sit there, hold your tongue, and mind your woman’s affairs.”