“May I know why?” exclaimed Ookhtishchev. Foma smiled sheepishly and stared in confusion at the whiskered man, Ookhtishchev’s interlocutor.
That man was stroking his moustache with an air of importance, and deep, heavy, repulsive words fell from his lips on Foma’s ears.
“Because, you see, there will be one co-cot-te less in town.”
“Shame, Martin Nikitich!” said Ookhtishchev, reproachfully, knitting his brow.
“How do you know that she is a coquette?” asked Foma, sternly, coming closer to the whiskered man. The man measured him with a scornful look, turned aside and moving his thigh, drawled out:
“I didn’t say—coquette.”
“Martin Nikitich, you mustn’t speak that way about a woman who—” began Ookhtishchev in a convincing tone, but Foma interrupted him:
“Excuse me, just a moment! I wish to ask the gentleman, what is the meaning of the word he said?”
And as he articulated this firmly and calmly, Foma thrust his hands deep into his trousers-pockets, threw his chest forward, which at once gave his figure an attitude of defiance. The whiskered gentleman again eyed Foma with a sarcastic smile.
“Gentlemen!” exclaimed Ookhtishchev, softly.