Yevpraksia went to eavesdrop, but was so stupid she could understand nothing.
"Oh, they're just having a chat," she explained upon her return.
Then Arina Petrovna could not hold out any longer and went to the dining-room, where the samovar had already been brought in. But the interview was nearing its end, and all she noted was that Petenka's voice was loud and angry, and Porfiry Vladimirych's replies were given in a nagging voice.
"He's nagging him, that just it, nagging!" ran in her head. "I remember he used to nag that way, and how is it I did not understand him then?"
At last, father and son appeared in the dining-room. Petenka's face was red and he was breathing heavily. His eyes were staring widely, his hair was disheveled, his forehead was covered with beads of perspiration. Yudushka, on the contrary, entered pale and cross. He wanted to appear indifferent but, in spite of all his efforts, his lower lip trembled. He could hardly utter the customary morning greetings to his mother dear.
All took their places at the table. Petenka seated himself at some distance, leaned against the back of his chair, crossed his legs, lighted a cigarette, and looked at his father ironically.
"You see, mother, the storm has abated," Yudushka began. "Yesterday there was such an uproar, but God only had to will it, and here we have a nice, bright, quiet day. Am I right, mother dear?"
"I don't know. I haven't been out to-day."
"By the way, we are going to see our dear guest off," continued Yudushka. "I rose early this morning, looked out of the window—it was still and quiet outdoors, as if God's angel had flown by and in a moment allayed the riot with his wings."
But no one answered Yudushka's kindly words. Yevpraksia sipped her tea from the saucer, blowing and puffing. Arina Petrovna looked into her cup and was silent. Petenka, swaying in his chair, continued to eye his father with an ironical, defiant air, as if he had to exert great efforts to keep from bursting out laughing.