"I am not begrudging them. It's you——"
"Now you are accusing me. I can't eat a crust of bread without being reproached for it, and it's I who am blamed for everything."
Yevpraksia could hold out no longer and burst into tears. Meanwhile the tea kept on boiling, so that Porfiry Vladimirych became seriously alarmed. So he suppressed his growing temper, seated himself beside Yevpraksia and patted her on her back.
"Well, well. All right. Pour the tea. What is all this crying for?"
Yevpraksia emitted a few more sobs, pouted and looked into space with her dull eyes. "You have just been speaking of young fellows," he went on, trying to lend his voice as caressing a ring as possible. "Well—after all, I'm not so old, am I?"
"The idea! Leave me alone."
"Come, come. I—do you know—when I served in St. Petersburg, our director wanted to give me his daughter in marriage?"
"Must have been an old maid—or a cripple."
"No, she was quite a presentable young lady. And how she sang, how she sang!"
"Maybe she sang well, but you accompanied her badly," she retorted.