When Ilya came in they crowded closer together and looked at him timidly out of their blue eyes.
"That's the boy," said his employer.
"You don't say so—such a young rascal," said the wife anxiously and looked at Ilya as if she had never seen him before.
Strogany smiled, stroked his beard, drummed on the table with his fingers, and said impressively:
"I've sent for you, Ilya, to tell you I don't need you any more, so get your things together and start off."
Ilya started and opened his mouth in astonishment, but could not get out a word, then turned and went out of the room.
"Stop!" called the merchant, stretching one arm out after him, and striking the table with his palm, "Stop!"
Then he held up one finger and went on slowly and composedly: "It's not only for that that I sent for you. No. I want to give you a lesson to take away with you. I wish to explain to you why I don't need you any more. You've done all right as far as I am concerned, you're a youngster that has had some education, you're industrious and honest and strong—yes, you've all those trump cards in your hand, and yet you won't suit me any more. I can't do with you in my business. Why? you ask—h'm—yes."
Ilya understood this much, that he seemed at the same time to be praised and dismissed. The contradiction would not come clear in his mind, but roused in him a strange double sensation and brought him to the idea that his employer himself did not know what he was doing. Strogany's face seemed to the lad to confirm this impression; on it there was an expression of tension, as though he were struggling in his mind with a thought for which he could not clearly find words. The boy stepped forward and said quietly and respectfully.
"You dismiss me because I took the knife to him?"