Smirnov. Because—because—That's my business why.
Mrs. Popov. You are afraid. Yes. A-h-h-h. No, no, my dear sir, no welching. Please follow me. I won't rest myself, until I've made a hole in your head that 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 that he likes me. [She points to the door.] Go.
Smirnov [laying the revolver silently on the table, takes his hat and goes; at the door he stops a moment gazing at her silently, then he approaches her undecidedly]. 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.] How is it my fault that you owe me money? [Grasps the chair back 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.