SMIRNOV [_looking at the pistols_]. You see there are different kinds of pistols. There are special duelling pistols with cap and ball. But these are revolvers, Smith & Wesson, with ejectors, fine pistols. A pair like that cost at least ninety rubles. This is the way to hold a revolver. [_Aside._] Those eyes, those eyes! A real woman! MRS. POPOV. Like this? SMIRNOV. Yes, that way. Then you pull the hammer back--so--then you aim--put your head back a little--just stretch your arm out, please. So--then press your finger on the thing like that, and that is all. The chief thing is this: don't get excited, don't hurry your aim, and take care that your hand doesn't tremble. MRS. POPOV. It isn't as well to shoot inside, let's go into the garden. SMIRNOV. Yes. I'll tell you now that I am going to shoot into the air. MRS. POPOV. That is too much. Why? SMIRNOV. Because--because--That's my business why. MRS. POPOV. You are afraid. Yes. A-h-h-h. No, no, my dear sir, no welching. Please follow me. I won't rest myself, until I've made a hole in your head that I hate so much. Are you afraid? SMIRNOV. Yes, I'm afraid. MRS. POPOV. You are lying. Why won't you fight? SMIRNOV. Because--because--I--like you. MRS. POPOV [_with an angry laugh_]. You like me! He dares to say that he likes me. [_She points to the door._] Go. SMIRNOV [_laying the revolver silently on the table, takes his hat and goes; at the door he stops a moment gazing at her silently, then he approaches her undecidedly_]. Listen? Are you still angry? I was mad as the devil, but please understand me--how can I express myself?--The thing is like this--such things are--[_He raises his voice._] How is it my fault that you owe me money? [_Grasps the chair back which breaks._] The devil knows what breakable furniture you have! I like you! Do you understand?--I--I'm almost in love! MRS. POPOV. Leave. I hate you. SMIRNOV. Lord! What a woman! I never in my life met one like her. I'm lost, ruined! I've been caught like a mouse in a trap. MRS. POPOV. Go, or I'll shoot. SMIRNOV. Shoot! You have no idea what happiness it would be to die in sight of those beautiful eyes, to die from the revolver in this little velvet hand--I'm mad! Consider it and decide immediately for if I go now; we shall never see each other again. Decide--speak--I am a noble, a respectable man, have an income of ten thousand, can shoot a coin thrown into the air--I own some fine horses. Will you be my wife? MRS. POPOV [_swings the revolver angrily_]. Shoot!