"What do you want?" he asked, as he stood with one hand on the door, and glaring at Oblómof as a sign of his surliness, at such an angle that he had to look at his master out of the corner of his eyes; while his master could see only one of his enormous side-whiskers, so bushy that you might have expected to have two or three birds come flying out from them. "My handkerchief, quick! You might have known what I wanted. Don't you see?" remarked Ílya Ílyitch sternly.[Pg 6543] Zakhár displayed no special dissatisfaction or surprise at such an order or such a reproach on his master's part, regarding both, so far as he was concerned, as perfectly natural. "But who knows where your handkerchief is?" he grumbled, circling about the room and making a careful examination of every chair, although it could be plainly seen that there was nothing whatever on them. "It is a perfect waste of time," he remarked, opening the door into the drawing-room in order to see if there was any sign of it there. "Where are you going? Look for it here; I have not been in that room since day before yesterday. And make haste," urged Ílya Ílyitch. "Where is the handkerchief? There isn't any handkerchief," exclaimed Zakhár rummaging and searching in every corner. "Oh, there it is," he suddenly cried angrily, "under you. There is the end of it sticking out. You were lying on it, and yet you ask me to find your handkerchief for you!" And Zakhár, without awaiting any reply, turned and started to go out. Oblómof was somewhat ashamed of his own blunder. But he quickly discovered another pretext for putting Zakhár in the wrong. "What kind of neatness do you call this everywhere here! Look at the dust and dirt! Good heavens! look here, look here! See these corners! You don't do anything at all." "And so I don't do anything," repeated Zakhár in a tone betokening deep resentment. "I am growing old, I shan't live much longer! But God knows I use the duster for the dust, and I sweep almost every day." He pointed to the middle of the floor, and at the table where Oblómof had dined. "Here, look here," he went on: "it has all been swept and all put in order, fit for a wedding. What more is needed?" "Well then, what is this?" cried Ílya Ílyitch, interrupting him and calling his attention to the walls and the ceiling. "And that? and that?" He pointed to a yesterday's napkin which had been flung down, and to a plate which had been left lying on the table with a dry crust of bread on it. "Well, as for that," said Zakhár as he picked up the plate, "I will take care of it."[Pg 6544] "You will take care of it, will you? But how about the dust and the cobwebs on the walls?" said Oblómof, making ocular demonstration. "I put that off till Holy Week; then I clean the sacred images and sweep down the cobwebs." "But how about dusting the books and pictures?"