One day Pyetushkov (who for the reasons given above found little comfort outside Praskovia Ivanovna’s doors) was sitting in Vassilissa’s room at the back, and was busying himself over some home-brewed concoction, something in the way of jam or syrup. The mistress of the house was not at home. Vassilissa was sitting in the shop singing. There came a knock at the little pane. Vassilissa got up, went to the window, uttered a little shriek, giggled, and began whispering with some one. On going back to her place, she sighed, and then fell to singing louder than ever. ‘Who was that you were talking to?’ Pyetushkov asked her. Vassilissa went on singing carelessly. ‘Vassilissa, do you hear? Vassilissa!’ ‘What do you want?’ ‘Whom were you talking to?’ ‘What’s that to you?’ ‘I only asked.’ Pyetushkov came out of the back room in a parti-coloured smoking-jacket with tucked-up sleeves, and a strainer in his hand. ‘Oh, a friend of mine,’ answered Vassilissa. ‘What friend?’ ‘Oh, Piotr Petrovitch.’ ‘Piotr Petrovitch? ... what Piotr Petrovitch?’ ‘He’s one of your lot. He’s got such a difficult name.’ ‘Bublitsyn?’ ‘Yes, yes ... Piotr Petrovitch.’ ‘And do you know him?’ ‘Rather!’ responded Vassilissa, with a wag of her head. Pyetushkov, without a word, paced ten times up and down the room. ‘I say, Vassilissa,’ he said at last, ‘that is, how do you know him?’ ‘How do I know him? ... I know him ... He’s such a nice gentleman.’ ‘How do you mean nice, though? how nice? how nice?’ Vassilissa gazed at Ivan Afanasiitch. ‘Nice,’ she said slowly and in perplexity. ‘You know what I mean.’ Pyetushkov bit his lips and began again pacing the room. ‘What were you talking about with him, eh?’ Vassilissa smiled and looked down. ‘Speak, speak, speak, I tell you, speak!’ ‘How cross you are to-day!’ observed Vassilissa. Pyetushkov was silent. ‘Come now, Vassilissa,’ he began at last; ‘no, I won’t be cross.... Come, tell me, what were you talking about?’ Vassilissa laughed. ‘He is a one to joke, really, that Piotr Petrovitch!’ ‘Well, what did he say?’ ‘He is a fellow!’ Pyetushkov was silent again for a little. ‘Vassilissa, you love me, don’t you?’ he asked her. ‘Oh, so that’s what you’re after, too!’