Ilya did not understand.
"How?"
"Have you ever worked?"
"Always. All my life. I—sell things," answered Ilya doubtfully.
She smiled, and Ilya felt a little hurt at her smile.
"You think—selling things—is work?"
"Yes, surely. It often makes me tired." Looking in her face he felt that she was not joking, but speaking earnestly.
"Oh, no"—the girl went on with a condescending smile. "To work means to make something by the exercise of one's strength—to create something. Thread or ribbons or chairs or chests—d'you see?" Lunev nodded and blushed; he was ashamed to say that he did not understand.
"But trade—what's the good of it? it makes nothing," she said with conviction, and looked challengingly at Ilya.
"Yes," he answered slowly and carefully. "You're right there—it isn't difficult when you're used to it. But still trade must be some use, or else there wouldn't be any, would there?"