‘Come, now, Onisim,’ Pyetushkov went on, ‘one must tell the truth. It’s a thing of the past now; it’s no matter to me now, but justice is justice. You don’t know her. She’s very good-hearted. Not a single beggar does she let pass by; she’ll always give, if it’s only a crust of bread. Oh! And she’s of a cheerful temper, that one must allow, too.’ ‘What a notion! I don’t know where you see the cheerful temper!’ ‘I tell you ... you don’t know her. And she’s not mercenary either ... that’s another thing. She’s not grasping, there’s no doubt of it. Why I never gave her anything, as you know.’ ‘That’s why she’s flung you over.’ ‘No, that’s not why!’ responded Pyetushkov with a sigh. ‘Why, you’re in love with her to this day,’ Onisim retorted malignantly. ‘You’d be glad to go back there as before.’ ‘That’s nonsense you’re talking. No, my lad, you don’t know me either, I can see. Be sent away, and then go dancing attendance--no, thank you, I’d rather be excused. No, I tell you. You may believe me, it’s all a thing of the past now.’ ‘Pray God it be so!’ ‘But why ever shouldn’t I be fair to her, now after all? If now I say she’s not good-looking--why, who’d believe me?’ ‘A queer sort of good looks!’ ‘Well, find me,--well, mention anybody better-looking ...’ ‘Oh, you’d better go back to her, then! ...’ ‘Stupid! Do you suppose that’s why I say so? Understand me ...’ ‘Oh! I understand you,’ Onisim answered with a heavy sigh. Another week passed by. Pyetushkov had positively given up talking with his Onisim, and had given up going out. From morning till night he lay on the sofa, his hands behind his head. He began to get thin and pale, eat unwillingly and hurriedly, and did not smoke at all. Onisim could only shake his head, as he looked at him. ‘You’re not well, Ivan Afanasiitch,’ he said to him more than once. ‘No, I’m all right,’ replied Pyetushkov. At last, one fine day (Onisim was not at home) Pyetushkov got up, rummaged in his chest of drawers, put on his cloak, though the sun was rather hot, went stealthily out into the street, and came back a quarter of an hour later.... He carried something under his cloak.... Onisim was not at home. The whole morning he had been sitting in his little room, deliberating with himself, grumbling and swearing between his teeth, and, at last, he sallied off to Vassilissa. He found her in the shop. Praskovia Ivanovna was asleep on the stove, rhythmically and soothingly snoring. ‘Ah, how d’ye do, Onisim Sergeitch,’ began Vassilissa, with a smile; ‘why haven’t we seen anything of you for so long?’ ‘Good day.’ ‘Why are you so depressed? Would you like a cup of tea?’ ‘It’s not me we’re talking about now,’ rejoined Onisim, in a tone of vexation. ‘Why, what then?’ ‘What! Don’t you understand me? What! What have you done to my master, come, you tell me that.’ ‘What I’ve done to him?’