“May I sit down?”
“Come over here, to the table.”
“How lively this is!” exclaimed Zvantzev, wrinkling his face.
“If you find it tedious, go and drown yourself,” said Sasha, angrily flashing her eyes at him.
“No, the water is cold,” replied Zvantzev, shrinking at her glance.
“As you please!” The woman shrugged her shoulders. “But it is about time you did it, and then, there’s also plenty of water now, so that you wouldn’t spoil it all with your rotten body.”
“Fie, how witty!” hissed the youth, turning away from her, and added with contempt: “In Russia even the prostitutes are rude.”
He addressed himself to his neighbour, but the latter gave him only an intoxicated smile in return. Ookhtishchev was also drunk. Staring into the face of his companion, with his eyes grown dim, he muttered something and heard nothing. The lady with the bird-like face was pecking candy, holding the box under her very nose. Pavlinka went away to the edge of the raft and, standing there, threw orange peels into the water.
“I never before participated in such an absurd outing and—company,” said Zvantzev, to his neighbour, plaintively.
And Foma watched him with a smile, delighted that this feeble and ugly-looking man felt bored, and that Sasha had insulted him. Now and then he cast at her a kind glance of approval. He was pleased with the fact that she was so frank with everybody and that she bore herself proudly, like a real gentlewoman.