The deacon flung down the abacus, and, plunging his hands into his pockets, began to pace the room. The peasant moved away to the corner, so as not to disturb him. Presently the innkeeper came in. “Landlord,” said the deacon, “what do I owe you for my man’s dinner?” “He had everything on the bill of fare, didn’t he?” “Well ... I suppose he did.” “Then it comes to a silver rouble.” “Can’t you make it a bit less.” “No, no, little father, we never bargain; we make all our little profit off the oats; the dinners cost us what we get for them.” The deacon discontentedly took a silver rouble out of his pocket. Yeremèi, meanwhile, stood in the corner, equally discontented. They had passed the town boundaries and got out into the open country two versts back, but the deacon remained perfectly silent. Yeremèi, anxious to know whether his master was still angry with him, ventured a question— “And is there any kind of body grander than the archbishop?” The deacon turned his head away in silence. _A DOMESTIC PICTURE._ A SCENE FROM MOSCOW LIFE. BY N. OSTRÒVSKY. DRAMATIS PERSONÆ. ANTÌP ANTÌPYCH POUZÀTOV, _merchant, 35 years old._ MATRYÒNA SÀVISHNA, _his wife, aged 25._ MÀRYA ANTÌPOVNA, _Pouzàtov’s sister, a girl of 19._ STEPANÌDA TROFIMOVNA, _Pouzàtov’s mother, aged 60._ PARAMÒN FERAPÒNTYCH SHIRYÀLOV, _merchant, aged 60._ DÀRYA, _servant maid._ _A room in Pouzàtov’s house, furnished in glaringly bad taste. Portraits hanging above the sofa; Birds of Paradise painted on the ceiling; bright-coloured window-curtains; bottles on the window-sills._ MÀRYA ANTÌPOVNA _sits by the window with an embroidery-frame._ _Màrya (singing softly as she works)._ “Black colour, sad colour, Yet for ever dear to me.” (_Breaks off, stops working, and meditates._) [Illustration: MÀRYA: “THERE! LOOK! OH! HE BOWED TO US! OH! THE WICKED MAN!” ] There! The summer’s nearly over; here we have September already, and you just sit cooped up within four walls, for all the world like a nun, and don’t dare to look out of window. That’s an inte_rest_ing life for a young lady! (_A pause._) I daresay! It’s all very well to shut us up and turn the key on us; but I know what we’ll do! We’ll ask leave to go to midnight mass at the convent, and then we’ll put on our best things and go off to the park or somewhere. There’s nothing for it, one _has_ to do things on the sly. (_Goes on embroidering; a pause._) I wonder how it is that Vasìli Gavrìlych hasn’t passed by once to-day? (_Looks out of window._) Sister! sister! There’s an officer riding past! Sister! Quick! With a white plume! _Matryòna (runs into the room)._ Where, sister, where?