"I should like to eat father's pancakes."
"Why not? Give orders to have them baked. Get hold of cook Marya or Ulita. Ulita cooks delicious pancakes."
"Maybe she has pleased you in some other way, too," remarked Yevpraksia acidly.
"No, but, oh, she's a witch at cooking pancakes, Ulita is. She cooks them light, soft—a sheer delight!"
Porfiry Vladimirych was evidently trying to mollify Yevpraksia, but to no avail.
"What I want is not yours, but father's pancakes," she answered, playing the spoiled darling.
"Well, that's not difficult. Get hold of the coachman, have him put a pair of horses to the carriage, and drive over to father's."
"No, sir, that won't do. If I've fallen in the trap, that's my own fault. Who has any use for one like me? You yourself called me a strumpet the other day. It's no use!"
"My, my! Isn't it a sin in you to accuse me falsely? Do you know how God punishes false accusations?"
"You did call me strumpet! You did! You did it in the presence of this ikon. How I hate your Golovliovo! I shall run away from here. I shall, by God!"