"See, you might have taken Vyera as an assistant," said Pavel.
Ilya looked at him, but said nothing.
"Come in," cried Masha.
At tea, hardly a word was spoken.
The sun shone on the street, the bare feet of the children shuffled along the pavement, the hawkers of vegetables went by the window.
"Fresh leeks, onions!" a woman cried.
"Fresh cucumbers!"
Everything spoke of spring, of fine warm, clear days, but in the little room it smelt damp and close. From time to time a melancholy, sorrowful word was uttered, the samovar hummed and glittered in the sunshine.
"We sit here as if we were at a funeral," said Ilya.
"Yes, Vyera's," added Gratschev. He sat there like a beaten hound. His hands moved slackly, his face was despairing, and he spoke slowly in a dull voice.