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"Sir!" said Foma, firmly, placing his hand on Ookhtishchev's shoulder, "I have always liked you, and you are now walking with me. I understand it and can appreciate it. But do not speak ill of her in my presence. Whatever she may be in your opinion, in my opinion, she is dear to me. To me she is the best woman. So I am telling you frankly. Since you are going with me, do not touch her.
The red-headed woman was thoughtfully examining the palm of Ookhtishchev's hand, holding it in her own, and the jolly girl became sad. She drooped her head low and listened to the song, motionless, as though bewitched by it. From the fire came the peasant.
Foma smiled sheepishly and stared in confusion at the whiskered man, Ookhtishchev's interlocutor. That man was stroking his moustache with an air of importance, and deep, heavy, repulsive words fell from his lips on Foma's ears. "Because, you see, there will be one co-cot-te less in town." "Shame, Martin Nikitich!" said Ookhtishchev, reproachfully, knitting his brow.
And this ugly face was perfectly motionless, and the eyes alone, small, round and cold, were forever smiling a penetrating and cunning smile. Ookhtishchev's lady's name was Vera; she was a tall, pale woman with red hair.
Firmly and kind-heartedly shaking Ookhtishchev's hand, Foma asked him: "And what makes you think that I am modest?" "What a question! A man, who lives like a hermit, who neither drinks, nor plays, nor likes any women. By the way, do you know, Foma Ignatyevich, that peerless patroness of ours is going abroad tomorrow for the whole summer?" "Sophya Pavlovna?" asked Foma, slowly. "Of course!
Eh?" he heard Ookhtishchev's jestingly-stern voice. The peasant, at whom Ookhtishchev shouted, drew the cap from his head, clapped it against his knee and answered, with a smile: "I came over to listen to the lady's song." "Well, does she sing well?" "What a question! Of course," said the peasant, looking at Sasha, with admiration in his eyes. "That's right!" exclaimed Ookhtishchev.
It seemed that there was no end to the road and that something dark, inexhaustible and suffocating was slowly flowing along it in the distance. Ookhtishchev's kind, suasive voice rang monotonously in Foma's ears, and though he was not listening to his words, he felt that they were tenacious in their way; that they adhered to him, and that he was involuntarily memorizing them.
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