“Who knows where the handkerchief is?” he muttered as he made a tour of the room and felt each chair (although he could not but have perceived that on them there was nothing whatsoever lying). “You lose everything,” he added, opening the door into the parlour in order to see whether the handkerchief might not be lurking _there_. “Where are you going?” exclaimed Oblomov. “’Tis _here_ you must search. I have not been into those other rooms since the year before last. Be quick, will you?” “I see no handkerchief,” said Zakhar, spreading out his hands and peering into every corner. “_There_ it is!” suddenly he croaked. “’Tis just underneath you. I can see its end sticking out. You have been lying on it all the time, yet you actually ask me to find it!” He hobbled away without waiting for an answer. For a moment or two Oblomov was taken aback, but soon found another means of putting his valet in the wrong. “A nice way to do your cleaning!” he said. “What a lot of dust and dirt, to be sure! Look at those corners! You never bestir yourself at all.” “If I never bestir myself,” retorted Zakhar offendedly, “at least I do my best, and don’t spare myself, for I dust and sweep almost every day. Everything looks clean and bright enough for a wedding.” “What a lie!” cried Oblomov. “Be off to your room again!” That he had provoked Zakhar to engage in this conversation was a fact which gave him small pleasure. The truth was he had forgotten that, once a delicate subject is touched upon, one cannot well avoid a fuss. Though he wished his rooms to be kept clean, he wished this task to be carried out invisibly, and apart from himself; whereas, whenever Zakhar was called upon to do even the least sweeping or dusting, he made a grievance of it. After Zakhar had retired to his den Oblomov relapsed into thought, until, a few minutes later, the clock sounded a halfhour of some sort. “What is that?” cried Oblomov in horror. “Soon the time will be eleven, yet I am not yet up and washed! Zakhar! Zakhar!” Zakhar reappeared. “Are my washing things ready?” his master inquired. “Yes, they have been ready a long time. Why do you not get up?” “And why didn’t _you_ tell _me_ that the things are ready? Had you done that, I should have risen long ago. Go along, and I will follow you; but at the moment I must sit down and write a letter.” Zakhar left the room. Presently he reappeared with a much-bescribbled, greasy account-book and a bundle of papers. “If you are going to write anything,” he said, “perhaps you would like to check these accounts at the same time? Some money is due to be paid out.” “What accounts? What money?” inquired Oblomov petulantly. “The accounts sent in by the butcher, the greengrocer, the laundress, and the baker. All are wanting their money.” “Always money and worry!” grumbled Oblomov. “Why do you not give me the accounts at intervals instead of in a batch like this?”