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Stytchkin began loudly blowing his nose, while the matchmaker turned crimson, and looking bashfully at him, asked: "And how much do you get, Nikolay Nikolayitch?" "I? Seventy-five roubles, besides tips. . . . Apart from that we make something out of candles and hares." "You go hunting, then?" "No. Passengers who travel without tickets are called hares with us." Another minute passed in silence.
"A glass of wine, I beg you. . . ." With an habitual gesture the matchmaker raised her glass to her mouth and tossed it off without winking. "I can," she repeated. "And what sort of bride would you like, Nikolay Nikolayitch?" "Should I like? The bride fate sends me." "Well, of course it depends on your fate, but everyone has his own taste, you know.
"You are still very attractive," said he; "if you met with a practical, steady, careful husband, with his salary and your earnings you might even attract him very much, and you'd get on very well together. . . ." "Goodness knows what you are saying, Nikolay Nikolayitch." "Well, I meant no harm. . . ." A silence followed.
After some thought he heaved a sigh and said: "That's dear. . . ." "It's not at all dear, Nikolay Nikolayitch! In old days when there were lots of weddings one did do it cheaper, but nowadays what are our earnings? If you make fifty roubles in a month that is not a fast, you may be thankful. It's not on weddings we make our money, my good sir."
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