“Come, I’ll give you some peaches,” said the old woman. “It’s only according to the ancient Cossack hospitality. It’s her old woman’s silliness,” said the cornet, explaining and apparently correcting his wife’s words. “In Russia, I expect, it’s not so much peaches as pineapple jam and preserves you have been accustomed to eat at your pleasure.” “So you say hares are to be found in the disused vineyard?” asked Olénin. “I will go there,” and throwing a hasty glance through the green branches he raised his cap and disappeared between the regular rows of green vines. The sun had already sunk behind the fence of the vineyards, and its broken rays glittered through the translucent leaves when Olénin returned to his host’s vineyard. The wind was falling and a cool freshness was beginning to spread around. By some instinct Olénin recognized from afar Maryánka’s blue smock among the rows of vine, and, picking grapes on his way, he approached her. His highly excited dog also now and then seized a low-hanging cluster of grapes in his slobbering mouth. Maryánka, her face flushed, her sleeves rolled up, and her kerchief down below her chin, was rapidly cutting the heavy clusters and laying them in a basket. Without letting go of the vine she had hold of, she stopped to smile pleasantly at him and resumed her work. Olénin drew near and threw his gun behind his back to have his hands free. “Where are your people? May God aid you! Are you alone?” he meant to say but did not say, and only raised his cap in silence. He was ill at ease alone with Maryánka, but as if purposely to torment himself he went up to her. “You’ll be shooting the women with your gun like that,” said Maryánka. “No, I shan’t shoot them.” They were both silent. Then after a pause she said: “You should help me.” He took out his knife and began silently to cut off the clusters. He reached from under the leaves low down a thick bunch weighing about three pounds, the grapes of which grew so close that they flattened each other for want of space. He showed it to Maryánka. “Must they all be cut? Isn’t this one too green?” “Give it here.” Their hands touched. Olénin took her hand, and she looked at him smiling. “Are you going to be married soon?” he asked. She did not answer, but turned away with a stern look. “Do you love Lukáshka?” “What’s that to you?” “I envy him!” “Very likely!” “No really. You are so beautiful!” And he suddenly felt terribly ashamed of having said it, so commonplace did the words seem to him. He flushed, lost control of himself, and seized both her hands. “Whatever I am, I’m not for you. Why do you make fun of me?” replied Maryánka, but her look showed how certainly she knew he was not making fun. “Making fun? If you only knew how I—” The words sounded still more commonplace, they accorded still less with what he felt, but yet he continued, “I don’t know what I would not do for you—” “Leave me alone, you pitch!”