Pod. Really when a man’s alone, and thinks about it at his leisure, it does seem after all as if one ought to get married. Indeed, if you think of it, here one goes on, living and living; and one ends by getting quite disgusted with everything. There, I’ve let the time slip by once more; and it’s holy season[[1]] again. It’s too bad! Everything’s ready, and the matchmaker’s been coming for the last three months. It makes me feel quite ashamed. Hi! Stepàn! (Enter Stepàn.) Hasn’t the matchmaker come?
Step. No, your honour.
Pod. Have you been to the tailor?
Step. Yes.
Pod. Is he making the dress-coat?
Step. Yes, sir.
Pod. How far has he got on with it?
Step. He is making the button-holes.
Pod. What do you say?
Step. I said he’s begun to make the button-holes.