"It's good to have pure air. You will sleep on the sofa. What is your name? I've forgotten. Aleksey?"
"Yevsey."
"Oh, yes." He raised the lamp, and pointed to the wall. "There's my son John."
A portrait made in thin pencil strokes and set in a narrow white frame hung inconspicuously upon the wall. It was a young but stern face, with a large forehead, a sharp nose, and stubbornly compressed lips. The lamp shook in the old man's hands, the shade knocked against the chimney, filling the room with a gentle whining sound.
"John," he repeated, setting the lamp back on the table. "A man's name means a great deal."
He thrust his head through the window, breathed in the cold air noisily, and without turning to Yevsey asked him to prepare the samovar.
When Yevsey was busying himself around the oven, a hunch-backed man entered, removed his straw hat in silence, and fanned his face with it.
"It's close, even though it's autumn already," he said in a beautiful chest voice.
"Aha, you here!" said the Smokestack.
They began to converse in low tones while standing at the window. Yevsey realizing that they were speaking about him strained his ears to catch what they were saying. But he could not distinguish any words.