_Koch._ The reason’s plain. Ivàn Kouzmìch is a man.... Well, what you may call a man ... such as you won’t find again. _Agàfia._ And Ivàn Pàvlovich? _Koch._ Ivàn Pàvlovich! He’s a regular good-for-nothing; they’re all good-for-nothings. _Agàfia._ Not all, surely? _Koch._ Just look yourself; just compare them; there are all sorts of people; but really, such a set—Ivàn Pàvlovich, Nikanòr Ivànovich—they’re like, Heaven knows what! _Agàfia._ Well, but really, they’re very ... modest. _Koch._ Modest, indeed! They’re regular bullies and roughs. I suppose you don’t want to be beaten the next day after the wedding? _Agàfia._ Oh, dear! Oh, dear! That’s such a dreadful misfortune that there couldn’t be anything worse! _Koch._ I should think not! One can’t imagine anything worse. _Agàfia._ Then your advice is that I should take Ivàn Kouzmìch? _Koch._ Of course you should take Ivàn Kouzmìch. (_Aside._) The business seems to go pretty smoothly. I’d better run to the confectioner’s and fetch Podkolyòssin. _Agàfia._ Then you think ... Ivàn Kouzmìch? _Koch._ Certainly, Ivàn Kouzmìch. _Agàfia._ And must I refuse all the others? _Koch._ Of course you must. _Agàfia._ But how am I to do it? I’m ashamed to. _Koch._ What’s there to be ashamed of? Just tell them that you’re too young to marry yet. _Agàfia._ Well, but they won’t believe me; they’ll begin asking why, and how, and all that. _Koch._ Well, if you want to put an end to it at once, you can simply say, “Get along with you, blockheads!” _Agàfia._ But how am I to say that? _Koch._ Well, just try. I assure you that, after that, they’ll all run away. _Agàfia._ But ... but it sounds ... so rude. _Koch._ Well, but you’ll never see them again, so what does it matter? _Agàfia._ Even so it doesn’t seem nice; ... they’ll be offended. _Koch._ What in the world does it matter if they are? If they could do you any harm that would be another thing; but the worst that can happen is for one of them to spit in your face—that’s all! _Agàfia._ There! you see! _Koch._ Well, what harm? Why, some people are spat at over and over again! There’s a man I know—such a handsome, fresh-coloured fellow—he was always coaxing and teasing his director to raise his salary, till at last the director lost all patience, and turned round and spat in his face. “There’s your salary!” he said; “let me alone, you demon!” But for all that he raised the salary, and the man was none the worse for having been spat at. What’s there to mind in that? It would be another matter if you hadn’t got a handkerchief near, but you have one in your pocket—you’ve nothing to do but to take it out and dry your face. (_Door-bell rings._) There’s some one at the door—one of them, I expect. I shouldn’t care to meet them just now. Isn’t there another way out? _Agàfia._ Oh, yes, down the back stairs. But, indeed, I am trembling all over!