SMIRNOV. Because—because. That's my business.
MRS. POPOV. You are afraid. Yes. A-h-h-h, No, no, my dear sir, no flinching! Please follow me. I won't rest until I've made a hole in that head I hate so much. Are you afraid?
SMIRNOV. Yes, I'm afraid.
MRS. POPOV. You are lying. Why won't you fight?
SMIRNOV. Because—because—I—like you.
MRS. POPOV. [With an angry laugh.] You like me! He dares to say he likes me! [She points to the door.] Go.
SMIRNOV. [Laying the revolver silently on the table, takes his hat and starts. At the door he stops a moment, gazing at her silently, then he approaches her, hesitating.] Listen! Are you still angry? I was mad as the devil, but please understand me—how can I express myself? The thing is like this—such things are—[He raises his voice.] Now, is it my fault that you owe me money? [Grasps the back of the chair, which breaks.] The devil knows what breakable furniture you have! I like you! Do you understand? I—I'm almost in love!
MRS. POPOV. Leave! I hate you.
SMIRNOV. Lord! What a woman! I never in my life met one like her. I'm lost, ruined! I've been caught like a mouse in a trap.
MRS. POPOV. Go, or I'll shoot.