_Pod._ I suppose you think to get married is no more than to say “Hi! Stepàn, bring my boots!” and just put them on, and go out. No, no! one must think it over, and look about one. _Fèkla._ Oh! there’s no harm in that. If you want to look, who minds your looking? The goods are in the market to be looked at. Call for your coat, and go off now, without wasting the morning! _Pod._ Now? Why just look how dull the weather is. If I go out, I may get caught in the rain. _Fèkla._ Dear me! What a misfortune! Why, little father, the grey hairs are coming on your head already. If you wait much longer, you won’t be a marriageable man at all. A fine prize! An aulic counsellor! I can tell you, we can get hold of such grand suitors, that we shan’t care to look at you! _Pod._ What rubbish are you talking? What’s put it into your head all of a sudden that I’ve got a grey hair? Where’s a grey hair? (_Feels his hair._) _Fèkla._ Why shouldn’t you have grey hairs? Most people do, when they live long enough. Take care, though; you won’t have this girl, and you don’t like that girl—but I can tell you, I’ve got a captain in my eye that’s a head and shoulders taller than you, and he talks just like a brass trumpet. He serves in the ammaralty.... _Pod._ It’s not true! I’ll look in the glass: you’re only pretending there are grey hairs! Hi! Stepàn! Bring the looking-glass!... No! wait—I’ll go myself. What next? Heaven defend us! that’s worse than small-pox! (_Exit into adjoining room. Enter_ KOCHKARYÒV, _running_.) _Koch._ Where’s Podkolyòssin? (_Seeing_ FÈKLA.) _You_ here! Ah! you!... Look here! What the devil did you marry me for? _Fèkla._ What’s the harm? It’s right and lawful. _Koch._ Right and lawful! What do you suppose a man wants with a wife? Did you suppose I couldn’t get on without one? _Fèkla._ Why, it was you yourself that wouldn’t let me alone. It was always “Granny, find me a wife!” _Koch._ Yah!... You old rat!... And what are you here for, I should like to know! You don’t mean to say Podkolyòssin wants to get married? _Fèkla._ And why not? God has blessed him. _Koch._ No! really? What a rascal! he never told me a word about it! Now what do you think of that, if you please? Isn’t he a sly rogue? (_Enter_ PODKOLYÒSSIN, _holding a mirror, and gazing into it intently_. KOCHKARYÒV _slips up behind, and startles him_.) _Koch._ Booh! _Pod._ (_cries out, and drops the mirror_). Ah! you crazy fellow! Now what is the use of doing that? Now what a silly thing to do! You just brought my heart into my mouth! _Koch._ There, I was only joking! _Pod._ Fine sort of joke! I can’t get my breath yet; and there, you’ve smashed the looking-glass! And it was an expensive one—I got it in the English shop. _Koch._ There, never mind! I’ll buy you another looking-glass. _Pod._ Yes, I dare say! I know what those other looking-glasses are like! One’s face comes out crooked, and they make one look ten years older.