Some weeks went by. Ivan Afanasiitch had completely forgotten Vassilissa, and chatted in a friendly way with his servant as before. One fine morning there came to see him a certain Bublitsyn, an easy-mannered and very agreeable young man. It is true he sometimes hardly knew himself what he was talking about, and was always, as they say, a little wild; but all the same he had the reputation of being an exceedingly agreeable person to talk to. He smoked a great deal with feverish eagerness, with lifted eyebrows and contracted chest--smoked with an expression of intense anxiety, or, one might rather say, with an expression as though, let him have this one more puff at his pipe, and in a minute he would tell you some quite unexpected piece of news; at times he would even give a grunt and a wave of the hand, while himself sucking at his pipe, as though he had suddenly recollected something extraordinarily amusing or important, then he would open his mouth, let off a few rings of smoke, and utter the most commonplace remarks, or even keep silence altogether. After gossiping a little with Ivan Afanasiitch about the neighbours, about horses, the daughters of the gentry around, and other such edifying topics, Mr. Bublitsyn suddenly winked, pulled up his shock of hair, and, with a sly smile, approached the remarkably dim looking-glass which was the solitary ornament of Ivan Afanasiitch’s room. ‘There’s no denying the fact,’ he pronounced, stroking his light brown whiskers, ‘we’ve got girls here that beat any of your Venus of Medicis hollow.... Have you seen Vassilissa, the baker girl, for instance?’ ... Mr. Bublitsyn sucked at his pipe. Pyetushkov started. ‘But why do I ask you?’ pursued Bublitsyn, disappearing in a cloud of smoke,--‘you’re not the man to notice, don’t you know, Ivan Afanasiitch! Goodness knows what you do to occupy yourself, Ivan Afanasiitch!’ ‘The same as you do,’ Pyetushkov replied with some vexation, in a drawling voice. ‘Oh no, Ivan Afanasiitch, not a bit of it.... How can you say so?’ ‘Well, why not?’ ‘Nonsense, nonsense.’ ‘Why so, why so?’ Bublitsyn stuck his pipe in the corner of his mouth, and began scrutinising his not very handsome boots. Pyetushkov felt embarrassed. ‘Ah, Ivan Afanasiitch, Ivan Afanasiitch!’ pursued Bublitsyn, as though sparing his feelings. ‘But as to Vassilissa, the baker girl, I can assure you: a very, ve-ry fine girl, ... ve-ry.’ Mr. Bublitsyn dilated his nostrils, and slowly plunged his hands into his pockets. Strange to relate, Ivan Afanasiitch felt something of the nature of jealousy. He began moving restlessly in his chair, burst into explosive laughter at nothing at all, suddenly blushed, yawned, and, as he yawned, his lower jaw twitched a little. Bublitsyn smoked three more pipes, and withdrew. Ivan Afanasiitch went to the window, sighed, and called for something to drink.