‘We understand,’ responded Onisim, and he got up from his seat. ‘We understand. Thanks for the entertainment.’ ‘Come in again some day.’ ‘All right, all right.’ Onisim approached the door. The fat woman came into the room. ‘Good evening to you, Onisim Sergeitch,’ she said in a peculiar chant. ‘Good evening to you, Praskovia Ivanovna,’ he said in the same sing-song. Both stood still for a little while facing each other. ‘Well, good day to you, Praskovia Ivanovna,’ Onisim chanted out again. ‘Well, good day to you, Onisim Sergeitch,’ she responded in the same sing-song. Onisim arrived home. His master was lying on his bed, gazing at the ceiling. ‘Where have you been?’ ‘Where have I been?’ ... (Onisim had the habit of repeating reproachfully the last words of every question.) ‘I’ve been about your business.’ ‘What business?’ ‘Why, don’t you know? ... I’ve been to see Vassilissa.’ Pyetushkov blinked and turned over on his bed. ‘So that’s how it is,’ observed Onisim, and he coolly took a pinch of snuff. ‘So that’s how it is. You’re always like that. Vassilissa sends you her duty.’ ‘Really?’ ‘Really? So that’s all about it. Really! ... She told me to say, Why is it, says she, one never sees him? Why is it, says she, he never comes?’ ‘Well, and what did you say?’ ‘What did I say? I told her: You’re a silly girl--I told her--as if folks like that are coming to see you! No, you come yourself, I told her.’ ‘Well, and what did she say?’ ‘What did she say? ... She said nothing.’ ‘That is, how do you mean, nothing?’ ‘Why, nothing, to be sure.’ Pyetushkov said nothing for a little while. ‘Well, and is she coming?’ Onisim shook his head. ‘She coming! You’re in too great a hurry, sir. She coming, indeed! No, you go too fast.’ ... ‘But you said yourself that ...’ ‘Oh, well, it’s easy to talk.’ Pyetushkov was silent again. ‘Well, but how’s it to be, then, my lad?’ ‘How? ... You ought to know best; you ‘re a gentleman.’ ‘Oh, nonsense! come now!’ Onisim swayed complacently backwards and forwards. ‘Do you know Praskovia Ivanovna?’ he asked at last. ‘No. What Praskovia Ivanovna?’ ‘Why, the baker woman!’ ‘Oh yes, the baker woman. I’ve seen her; she’s very fat.’ ‘She’s a worthy woman. She’s own aunt to the other, to your girl.’ ‘Aunt?’ ‘Why, didn’t you know?’ ‘No, I didn’t know.’ ‘Well ...’ Onisim was restrained by respect for his master from giving full expression to his feelings. ‘That’s whom it is you should make friends with.’ ‘Well, I’ve no objection.’ Onisim looked approvingly at Ivan Afanasiitch. ‘But with what object precisely am I to make friends with her?’ inquired Pyetushkov. ‘What for, indeed!’ answered Onisim serenely. Ivan Afanasiitch got up, paced up and down the room, stood still before the window, and without turning his head, with some hesitation he articulated: ‘Onisim!’ ‘What say?’ ‘Won’t it be, you know, a little awkward for me with the old woman, eh?’ ‘Oh, that’s as you like.’