_Koch._ You’re a booby, a perfect booby, any fellow will tell you that. I don’t care if you _are_ an aulic counsellor—you’re nothing in the world but a fool. What do you suppose I’m taking all this trouble for? Only for your good. Don’t I see that you’ll let the prize slip through your fingers? And there you lie, you confounded old bachelor! Now just have the kindness to tell me, what do you call yourself? You’re a dummy, a milksop, a nincompoop, a—I’d tell you what you are if I could only find a civil word for it. You’re worse than any old woman! _Pod._ Look here, that’s too much of a good thing. (_Softly._) Are you gone off your head? There’s a serf in the room, and you let him hear you say bad words! Can’t you find another place to quarrel in? _Koch._ I should like to know who could help quarrelling with you! Bad language! What else could anybody turn their tongue to? You begin by behaving reasonably, and arrange to get married, as any sensible man would; and then, all of a sudden, without why or wherefore, you must get a bee in your bonnet, and there’s no more sense in you than in a wooden post.... _Pod._ There, that’ll do! I’ll come; why, you needn’t fly at me like that! _Koch._ Come? Of course you will—what else should you do? (_To_ STEPÀN.) Give him his hat and cloak. _Pod._ (_at the door_). What a queer fellow it is! There’s no making him out at all. All of a sudden he sets to work and abuses you without rhyme or reason. Doesn’t understand how to speak to a fellow. _Koch._ There! I’m not going to scold you now. (_Exeunt._) SCENE II. (_A room in_ AGÀFIA TIKHÒNOVNA’S _house_. AGÀFIA TIKHÒNOVNA _spreading cards for fortune-telling_, ARÌNA PANTELÈYMOVNA _looking over her shoulder_.) _Agàfia._ Why, auntie! there’s a journey again! Some king of diamonds takes an interest in me; then there are tears, and a love-letter; on the left-hand side the king of clubs expresses great sympathy—but there’s a wicked woman that stands between. _Arìna._ Whom do you think the king of clubs stands for? _Agàfia._ I don’t know. _Arìna._ I know who it is. _Agàfia._ Who? _Arìna._ A good, honest cloth merchant, my girl—Alexièy Dmìtrievich Starikòv. _Agàfia._ That I know it isn’t; I’m positive it isn’t he. _Arìna._ You can’t get out of it, Agàfia Tikhònovna; I can tell by the fair hair. There’s only one king of clubs, you see. _Agàfia._ Then you’re just wrong; the king of clubs here means a nobleman—there’s a good deal of difference between a tradesman and a king of clubs.