"You are always in the habit of talking such nonsense at table," said his wife, with an evident air of displeasure.
"Why, my heart," said Sobakevitch, "if I was to do it myself, it would be a different thing; but I tell you candidly that I will never eat any of their stuff. You may cover a frog with a crust of sugar, and yet I would not take it into my mouth, nor what they call oysters; I know what oysters are like."
"Take some mutton," he continued, addressing himself to Tchichikoff; "this is a shoulder of mutton with grits. This is not a stew, as they make it in town kitchens, where they employ mutton which has been offered for sale for three or four days in the market."
Hereupon Sobakevitch shook his head angrily, whilst adding:
"When I am to have some roast or boiled pork, let me have the whole pig on the table; if some mutton, I want to look at the whole animal; if a goose, let me have the whole bird. I would rather feed on ope dish, but feed to my heart's content."
Sobakevitch confirmed this principle by the deed: he placed the half of the shoulder of mutton on his plate, ate it all, picked and licked over the bones to the last.
"Yes," thought Tchichikoff to himself, "his lips are as good as his mouth."
"It is not so with me," said Sobakevitch, whilst wiping his hands and mouth on a napkin, "it is not with me as it is with a Pluschkin; he has eight hundred serfs, but eats a worse dinner than any of my shepherds."
"Who is this Pluschkin?" inquired Tchichikoff.
"A scoundrel," answered Sobakevitch. "His avarice is so great that you cannot form an idea of it. A prisoner lives better than him. He nearly starves all his peasants."