Several days slipped by again, apparently rather tranquilly. But a storm was getting nearer. Pyetushkov suffered tortures, was jealous, never took his eyes off Vassilissa, kept an alarmed watch over her, annoyed her horribly. Behold, one evening, Vassilissa dressed herself with more care than usual, and, seizing a favourable instant, sallied off to make a visit somewhere. Night came on, she had not returned. Pyetushkov at sunset went home to his lodgings, and at eight o’clock in the morning ran to the baker’s shop.... Vassilissa had not come in. With an inexpressible sinking at his heart, he waited for her right up to dinner-time.... They sat down to the table without her.... ‘Whatever can have become of her?’ Praskovia Ivanovna observed serenely.... ‘You spoil her, you simply spoil her utterly!’ Pyetushkov repeated, in despair. ‘Eh! my good sir, there’s no looking after a girl!’ responded Praskovia Ivanovna. ‘Let her go her way! So long as she does her work.... Why shouldn’t folks enjoy themselves? ...’ A cold shudder ran over Pyetushkov. At last, towards evening, Vassilissa made her appearance. This was all he was waiting for. Majestically Pyetushkov rose from his seat, folded his arms, scowled menacingly.... But Vassilissa looked him boldly in the face, laughed impudently, and before he could utter a single word she went quickly into her own room, and locked herself in. Ivan Afanasiitch opened his mouth, looked in amazement at Praskovia Ivanovna.... Praskovia Ivanovna cast down her eyes. Ivan Afanasiitch stood still a moment, groped after his cap, put it on askew, and went out without closing his mouth. He reached home, took up a leather cushion, and with it flung himself on the sofa, with his face to the wall. Onisim looked in out of the passage, went into the room, leaned his back against the door, took a pinch of snuff, and crossed his legs. ‘Are you unwell, Ivan Afanasiitch?’ he asked Pyetushkov. Pyetushkov made no answer. ‘Shall I go for the doctor?’ Onisim continued, after a brief pause. ‘I’m quite well.... Go away,’ Ivan Afanasiitch articulated huskily. ‘Well? ... no, you’re not well, Ivan Afanasiitch.... Is this what you call being well?’ Pyetushkov did not speak. ‘Just look at yourself. You’ve grown so thin, that you’re simply not like yourself. And what’s it all about? It’s enough to turn one’s brain to think of it. And you a gentleman born, too!’ Onisim paused. Pyetushkov did not stir. ‘Is that the way gentlemen go on? They’d amuse themselves a bit, to be sure ... why shouldn’t they ... they’d amuse themselves, and then drop it.... They may well say, Fall in love with Old Nick, and you’ll think him a beauty.’ Ivan Afanasiitch merely writhed.