"Fifteen! Why? What's her age got to do with it? She looks barely twelve, she's so slender and delicate. Heaven knows, she's just a child still. She's fit for nothing, nothing! What is to become of her? It would be better if she never waked again till the last day."
A vague cloud of ideas filled Ilya's head when he left the garret. An hour later he was standing before the door of Olympiada's house, waiting to be admitted. He waited a long time in the cold, till at last from behind the door a thin, peevish voice asked: "Who is there?"
"I——" answered Lunev, not very clear who was speaking. Olympiada's servant, a plump, pock-marked person, had a loud harsh voice, and always opened the door without question.
"Whom do you want?" asked the voice again.
"Is Olympiada Danilovna at home?"
The door opened suddenly, and a strong light fell on Ilya's face. The lad fell back a step, half shut his eyes, and looked perplexedly at the door, as though what he saw appeared an illusion. Before him, lamp in hand, stood a little old man, in a wide heavy dressing-gown, the colour of raspberries. His head was all but entirely bald, only a thin crown of grey hair ran from one ear to the other, and on his chin a short thin grey beard quivered uneasily. He looked at Ilya's face, and his keen, piercing eyes blinked evilly, and his upper lip, with its scanty hairs, twitched up and down. The lamp shook and trembled in his thin, swarthy hand.
"Who are you, then? Well, come in. Who are you?"
Ilya understood. He felt the blood mount to his head and an untoward feeling of disgust and wrath filled his heart. This was the rival who shared with him the favours of the stately, beautiful lady!
"I am—a pedlar," he said, in a dull voice, as he crossed the threshhold.
The old man winked at him with his left eye, and smiled. His eyes were red with inflammation, without eyelashes, and instead of teeth, a couple of yellow, pointed pegs showed in his mouth.