"Well, WHAT province do you belong to?"
"I?" the young fellow re-echoes as he subsides on to his heels. "I belong to Penza. Why do you ask?"
"Oh never mind why."
Presently, with a strangely youthful laugh, the woman adds in a murmur:
"I ask because I too belong to that province."
"And to which canton?"
"To that of Penza." In the woman's tone is a touch of pride.
The young fellow squats down before her, as before a wood fire, stretches out his hands, and says in an ingratiating voice:
"What a fine place is our cantonal town! What churches and shops and stone houses there are in it! In fact, one shop sells a machine on which you can play anything you like, any sort of a tune!"
"As well as, probably, the fool," comments Konev in an undertone, though the young fellow is too enthralled with the memory of the amenities of his cantonal capital to notice the remark. Next, smacking his lips, and chewing his words, he continues in a murmur: