Onisim set a glass of kvas on the table, glanced severely at his master, leaned back against the door, and hung his head dejectedly. ‘What are you so thoughtful about?’ his master asked him genially, but with some inward trepidation. ‘What am I thinking about?’ retorted Onisim; ‘what am I thinking about? ... it’s always about you.’ ‘About me!’ ‘Of course it’s about you.’ ‘Why, what is it you are thinking?’ ‘Why, this is what I’m thinking.’ (Here Onisim took a pinch of snuff.) ‘You ought to be ashamed, sir--you ought to be ashamed of yourself.’ ‘Ashamed?’ ‘Yes, ashamed.... Look at Mr. Bublitsyn, Ivan Afanasiitch.... Tell me if he’s not a fine fellow, now.’ ‘I don’t understand you.’ ‘You don’t understand me.... Oh yes, you do understand me.’ Onisim paused. ‘Mr. Bublitsyn’s a real gentleman--what a gentleman ought to be. But what are you, Ivan Afanasiitch, what are you? Tell me that.’ ‘Why, I’m a gentleman too.’ ‘A gentleman, indeed!’ ... retorted Onisim, growing indignant. ‘A pretty gentleman you are! You’re no better, sir, than a hen in a shower of rain, Ivan Afanasiitch, let me tell you. Here you sit sticking at home the whole blessed day ... much good it does you, sitting at home like that! You don’t play cards, you don’t go and see the gentry, and as for ... well ...’ Onisim waved his hand expressively. ‘Now, come ... you really go ... too far ...’ Ivan Afanasiitch said hesitatingly, clutching his pipe. ‘Too far, indeed, Ivan Afanasiitch, too far, you say! Judge for yourself. Here again, with Vassilissa ... why couldn’t you ...’ ‘But what are you thinking about, Onisim,’ Pyetushkov interrupted miserably. ‘I know what I’m thinking about. But there--I’d better let you alone! What can you do? Only fancy ... there you ...’ Ivan Afanasiitch got up. ‘There, there, if you please, you hold your tongue,’ he said quickly, seeming to be searching for Onisim with his eyes; ‘I shall really, you know ... I ... what do you mean by it, really? You’d better help me dress.’ Onisim slowly drew off Ivan Afanasiitch’s greasy Tartar dressing-gown, gazed with fatherly commiseration at his master, shook his head, put him on his coat, and fell to beating him about the back with a brush. Pyetushkov went out, and after a not very protracted stroll about the crooked streets of the town, found himself facing the baker’s shop. A queer smile was playing about his lips. He had hardly time to look twice at the too well-known ‘establishment,’ when suddenly the little gate opened, and Vassilissa ran out with a yellow kerchief on her head and a jacket flung after the Russian fashion on her shoulders. Ivan Afanasiitch at once overtook her. ‘Where are you going, my dear?’ Vassilissa glanced swiftly at him, laughed, turned away, and put her hand over her lips. ‘Going shopping, I suppose?’ queried Ivan Afanasiitch, fidgeting with his feet. ‘How inquisitive we are!’ retorted Vassilissa.