MRS. POPOV. I cannot.
SMIRNOV. Hm! Is that your last word?
MRS. POPOV. My last.
SMIRNOV. Absolutely?
MRS. POPOV. Absolutely.
SMIRNOV. Thank you. [He shrugs his shoulders.] And they expect me to stand for all that. The toll-gatherer just now met me in the road and asked me why I was always worrying. Why, in Heaven's name, shouldn't I worry? I need money, I feel the knife at my throat. Yesterday morning I left my house in the early dawn and called on all my debtors. If even one of them had paid his debt! I worked the skin off my fingers! The devil knows in what sort of Jew-inn I slept; in a room with a barrel of brandy! And now at last I come here, seventy versts from home, hope for a little money, and all you give me is moods! Why shouldn't I worry?
MRS. POPOV. I thought I made it plain to you that my manager will return from town, and then you will get your money.
SMIRNOV. I did not come to see the manager; I came to see you. What the devil—pardon the language—do I care for your manager?
MRS. POPOV. Really, sir, I am not used to such language or such manners. I shan't listen to you any further.
[She goes out, left.