“We’ll have to sound Taraska. He lives in Usolye at some factory. I was told by some merchants—they’re making soda there, I believe. I’ll find out the particulars. I’ll write to him.”
“Allow me to write to him, papa!” begged Lubov, softly, flushing, trembling with joy.
“You?” asked Mayakin, casting a brief glance at her; he then became silent, thought awhile and said:
“That’s all right. That’s even better! Write to him. Ask him whether he isn’t married, how he lives, what he thinks. But then I’ll tell you what to write when the time has come.”
“Do it at once, papa,” said the girl.
“It is necessary to marry you off the sooner. I am keeping an eye on a certain red-haired fellow. He doesn’t seem to be stupid. He’s been polished abroad, by the way.
“Is it Smolin, papa?” asked Lubov, inquisitively and anxiously.
“And supposing it is he, what of it?” inquired Yakov Tarasovich in a business-like tone.
“Nothing, I don’t know him,” replied Lubov, indefinitely.
“We’ll make you acquainted. It’s time, Lubov, it’s time. Our hopes for Foma are poor, although I do not give him up.”