"Why didn't you tell me it was ready? I should have got up long ago if you had. Go on; I will follow you immediately. I have some business to do; I want to write."
Zakhár went out, but in the course of a few minutes he returned with a greasy copy-book all scribbled over, and some scraps of paper.
"Here, if you want to write—and by the way, be kind enough to verify these accounts: we need the money to pay them."
"What accounts? what money?" demanded Ílya Ílyitch with a show of temper.
"From the butcher, from the grocer, from the laundress, from the baker; they all are clamoring for money."
"Nothing but bother about money," growled Ílya Ílyitch. "But why didn't you give them to me one at a time instead of all at once?"
"You see you always kept putting me off: 'To-morrow,' always 'To-morrow.'"
"Well, why shouldn't we put them off till to-morrow now?"
"No! they are dunning you; they won't give any longer credit. To-morrow's the first of the month."
"Akh!" cried Oblómof in vexation, "new bother! Well, why are you standing there? Put them on the table. I will get up immediately, take my bath, and look them over," said Ílya Ílyitch. "Is it all ready for my bath?"