n a parti-coloured smoking-jacket

with tucked-up sleeves, and a strainer in his hand.

'Oh, a friend of mine,' answered Vassilissa.

'What friend?'

'Oh, Piotr Petrovitch.'

'Piotr Petrovitch? ... what Piotr Petrovitch?'

'He's one of your lot. He's got such a difficult name.'

'Bublitsyn?'

'Yes, yes ... Piotr Petrovitch.'

'And do you know him?'

'Rather!' responded Vassilissa, with a wag of her head.

Pyetushkov, without a word, paced ten times up and down the room.

'I say, Vassilissa,' he said at last, 'that is, how do you know him?'

'How do I know him? ... I know him ... He's such a nice gentleman.'

'How do you mean nice, though? how nice? how nice?'

Vassilissa gazed at Ivan Afanasiitch.

'Nice,' she said slowly and in perplexity. 'You know what I mean.'

Pyetushkov bit his lips and began again pacing the room.

'What were you talking about with him, eh?'

Vassilissa smiled and looked down.

'Speak, speak, speak, I tell you, speak!'