"Heaven knows what you're talking about, uncle. 'With a guitar!'"
"Well, if it isn't a guitar, then it's a bagpipe or something. Besides, you offended me first, called me foolish. So I, an old man, surely have a right to tell you the truth to your face."
"All right, let it be the truth. We won't argue about it. But tell me, please, did grandmother leave anything?"
"Why, of course, she did. But the legitimate heir was present in person."
"That is you. All the better. Was she buried here in Golovliovo?"
"No, near Pogorelka, at the St. Nicholas Church. It was her own wish."
"I'll go. Can I hire horses here, uncle?"
"Why hire? I've got my own. You are not a stranger, I dare say, a niece, my little niece."
Porfiry Vladimirych began to liven up, and put on an en famille grin. "A pony cart, a pair of fine little horses—thank God, I am not poor, I dare say! And wouldn't it be well for me to go with you? We would visit the grave, you see, and then would go to Pogorelka and peep in here and there, and we would think matters over, talk things over—about this and that. Yours is a fine little estate, you know. It has some very good spots."
"No, I'll go alone, I think. Why should you go? By the way, Petenka's dead, too, I hear?"