“That’s just it.”
Abramka reflected a moment, then said:
“I assure you, Mrs. Zarubkin, you need not be a bit uneasy. I will make a dress for you that will be just as grand as the one from abroad. I assure you, your dress will be the most elegant one at the ball, just as it always has been. I tell you, my name won’t be Abramka Stiftik if—”
His eager asseverations seemed not quite to satisfy the captain’s wife. Her mind was not quite set at ease. She interrupted him.
“But the style, Abramka, the style! You can’t possibly guess what the latest fashion is abroad.”
“Why shouldn’t I know what the latest fashion is, Mrs. Zarubkin? In Kiev I have a friend who publishes fashion-plates. I will telegraph to him, and he will immediately send me pictures of the latest French models. The telegram will cost only eighty cents, Mrs. Zarubkin, and I swear to you I will copy any dress he sends. Mrs. Shaldin can’t possibly have a dress like that.”
“All very well and good, and that’s what we’ll do. Still we must wait until Mrs. Shaldin comes back. Don’t you see, Abramka, I must have exactly the same style that she has? Can’t you see, so that nobody can say that she is in the latest fashion?”
At this point Semyonov entered the room cautiously. He was wearing the oddest-looking jacket and the captain’s old boots. His hair was rumpled, and his eyes were shining suspiciously. There was every sign that he had used the renewal of friendship with the doctor’s men as a pretext for a booze.
“I had to stand them some brandy, your Excellency,” he said saucily, but catching his mistress’s threatening look, he lowered his head guiltily.
“Idiot,” she yelled at him, “face about. Be off with you to the kitchen.”