Pyetushkov put on his coat. ‘He doesn’t believe me, the beast,’ he thought to himself. He went out of the house, but he did not go to see any one. He walked about the streets. He directed his attention to the sunset. At last a little after eight o’clock he returned home. He wore a smile; he repeatedly shrugged his shoulders, as though marvelling at his own folly. ‘Yes,’ thought he, ‘this is what comes of a strong will....’ Next day Pyetushkov got up rather late. He had not passed a very good night, did not go out all day, and was fearfully bored. Pyetushkov read through all his poor books, and praised aloud one story in the Library of Good Reading. As he went to bed, he told Onisim to give him his pipe. Onisim handed him a wretched pipe. Pyetushkov began smoking; the pipe wheezed like a broken-winded horse. ‘How disgusting!’ cried Ivan Afanasiitch; ‘where’s my cherry wood pipe?’ ‘At the baker’s shop,’ Onisim responded tranquilly. Pyetushkov blinked spasmodically. ‘Well, you wish me to go for it?’ ‘No, you needn’t; don’t go ... no need, don’t go, do you hear?’ ‘Yes, sir.’ The night passed somehow. In the morning Onisim, as usual, gave Pyetushkov on the blue sprigged plate a new white roll. Ivan Afanasiitch looked out of window and asked Onisim: ‘You’ve been to the baker’s shop?’ ‘Who’s to go, if I don’t?’ ‘Ah!’ Pyetushkov became plunged in meditation. ‘Tell me, please, did you see any one there?’ ‘Of course I did.’ ‘Whom did you see there, now, for instance?’ ‘Why, of course, Vassilissa.’ Ivan Afanasiitch was silent. Onisim cleared the table, and was just going out of the room.... ‘Onisim,’ Pyetushkov cried faintly. ‘What is it?’ ‘Er ... did she ask after me?’ ‘Of course she didn’t.’ Pyetushkov set his teeth. ‘Yes,’ he thought, ‘that’s all it’s worth, her love, indeed....’ His head dropped. ‘Absurd I was, to be sure,’ he thought again. ‘A fine idea to read her poetry. A girl like that! Why, she’s a fool! Why, she’s good for nothing but to lie on the stove and eat pancakes. Why, she’s a post, a perfect post; an uneducated workgirl.’ ‘She’s never come,’ he whispered, two hours later, still sitting in the same place, ‘she’s never come. To think of it; why, she could see that I left her out of temper; why, she might know that I was hurt. There’s love for you! And she did not even ask if I were well. Never even said, “Is Ivan Afanasiitch quite well?” She hasn’t seen me for two whole days--and not a sign.... She’s even again, maybe, thought fit to meet that Bub--Lucky fellow. Ouf, devil take it, what a fool I am!’ Pyetushkov got up, paced up and down the room in silence, stood still, knitted his brows slightly and scratched his neck. ‘However,’ he said aloud, ‘I’ll go to see her. I must see what she’s about there. I must make her feel ashamed. Most certainly ... I’ll go. Onisim! my clothes.’