‘I came to have a few words with you, Praskovia Ivanovna.’ ‘What about, my good sir?’ ‘I’ll tell you. You comprehend that after all ... that has passed ... after such, so to say, behaviour (Pyetushkov was a little confused) ... in a word ... But, pray, don’t be angry with me, though.’ ‘Certainly not, sir.’ ‘On the contrary, enter into my position, Praskovia Ivanovna.’ ‘Certainly, sir.’ ‘You’re a reasonable woman, you’ll understand of yourself, that ... that I can’t go on coming to see you any more.’ ‘Certainly, sir,’ Praskovia Ivanovna repeated slowly. ‘I assure you I greatly regret it; I confess it is positively painful to me, genuinely painful ...’ ‘You know best, sir,’ Praskovia Ivanovna rejoined serenely. ‘It’s for you to decide, sir. And, oh, if you’ll allow me, I’ll give you your little account, sir.’ Pyetushkov had not at all anticipated such a prompt acquiescence. He had not desired acquiescence at all; he had only wanted to frighten Praskovia Ivanovna, and above all Vassilissa. He felt wretched. ‘I know,’ he began, ‘this will not be disagreeable to Vassilissa; on the contrary, I believe she will be glad.’ Praskovia Ivanovna got out her reckoning beads, and began rattling the counters. ‘On the other hand,’ continued Pyetushkov, growing more and more agitated, ‘if Vassilissa were, for instance, to give an explanation of her behaviour ... possibly.... Though, of course ... I don’t know, possibly, I might perceive that after all there was no great matter for blame in it.’ ‘There’s thirty-seven roubles and forty kopecks in notes to your account, sir,’ observed Praskovia Ivanovna. ‘Here, would you be pleased to go through it?’ Ivan Afanasiitch made no reply. ‘Eighteen dinners at seventy kopecks each; twelve roubles sixty kopecks.’ ‘And so we are to part, Praskovia Ivanovna.’ ‘If so it must be, sir. Things do turn out so. Twelve samovars at ten kopecks each ...’ ‘But you might just tell me, Praskovia Ivanovna, where it was Vassilissa went, and what it was she ...’ ‘Oh, I never asked her, sir.... One rouble twenty kopecks in silver.’ Ivan Afanasiitch sank into meditation. ‘Kvas and effervescing drinks,’ pursued Praskovia Ivanovna, holding the counters apart on the frame not with her first, but her third finger, ‘half a rouble in silver. Sugar and rolls for tea, half a rouble. Four packets of tobacco bought by your orders, eighty kopecks in silver. To the tailor Kuprian Apollonov ...’ Ivan Afanasiitch suddenly raised his head, put out his hand and mixed up the counters. ‘What are you about, my good man?’ cried Praskovia Ivanovna. ‘Don’t you trust me?’ ‘Praskovia Ivanovna,’ replied Pyetushkov, with a hurried smile, ‘I’ve thought better of it. I was only, you know ... joking. We’d better remain friends and go on in the old way. What nonsense it is! How can we separate--tell me that, please?’ Praskovia Ivanovna looked down and made him no reply.