Ivan Afanasiitch raised his eyes. From the open pane of the bakehouse window peeped a girl of about seventeen, holding a white roll in her hand. She had a full round face, rosy cheeks, small hazel eyes, rather a turn-up nose, fair hair, and magnificent shoulders. Her features suggested good-nature, laziness, and carelessness. ‘Here’s a roll for you, sir,’ she said, laughing, ‘I’d taken for myself; but take it, please, I’ll give it up to you.’ ‘I thank you most sincerely. Allow me ...’ Pyetushkov began fumbling in his pocket. ‘No, no! you are welcome to it.’ She closed the window-pane. Pyetushkov arrived home in a perfectly agreeable frame of mind. ‘You couldn’t get any rolls,’ he said to his Onisim; ‘but here, I’ve got one, do you see?’ Onisim gave a bitter laugh. The same day, in the evening, as Ivan Afanasiitch was undressing, he asked his servant, ‘Tell me, please, my lad, what’s the girl like at the baker’s, hey?’ Onisim looked away rather gloomily, and responded, ‘What do you want to know for?’ ‘Oh, nothing,’ said Pyetushkov, taking off his boots with his own hands. ‘Well, she’s a fine girl!’ Onisim observed condescendingly. ‘Yes, ... she’s not bad-looking,’ said Ivan Afanasiitch, also looking away. ‘And what’s her name, do you know?’ ‘Vassilissa.’ ‘And do you know her?’ Onisim did not answer for a minute or two. ‘We know her.’ Pyetushkov was on the point of opening his mouth again, but he turned over on the other side and fell asleep. Onisim went out into the passage, took a pinch of snuff, and gave his head a violent shake. The next day, early in the morning, Pyetushkov called for his clothes. Onisim brought him his everyday coat--an old grass-coloured coat, with huge striped epaulettes. Pyetushkov gazed a long while at Onisim without speaking, then told him to bring him his new coat. Onisim, with some surprise, obeyed. Pyetushkov dressed, and carefully drew on his chamois-leather gloves. ‘You needn’t go to the baker’s to-day,’ said he with some hesitation; ‘I’m going myself, ... it’s on my way.’ ‘Yes, sir,’ responded Onisim, as abruptly as if some one had just given him a shove from behind. Pyetushkov set off, reached the baker’s shop, tapped at the window. The fat woman opened the pane. ‘Give me a roll, please,’ Ivan Afanasiitch articulated slowly. The fat woman stuck out an arm, bare to the shoulder--a huge arm, more like a leg than an arm--and thrust the hot bread just under his nose. Ivan Afanasiitch stood some time under the window, walked once or twice up and down the street, glanced into the courtyard, and at last, ashamed of his childishness, returned home with the roll in his hand. He felt ill at ease the whole day, and even in the evening, contrary to his habit, did not drop into conversation with Onisim. The next morning it was Onisim who went for the roll. II