_Stepanìda._ Ah! little mother! And what would become of the house if it wasn’t for me? _You’re_ not much of a housekeeper; you’re too young yet, little mother; you’ve a good deal to learn yet! Why, just look at you—you don’t get up till after ten o’clock—it’s a shame to say it, my girl, but it’s the Lord’s own truth—and here I have to sit by the samovar and wait till you please to come down; and I’m older than you are, madam. You’re too much of a fine lady, Matryòna Sàvishna, too much by a long way! It’s no use for you to give yourself airs, my lass; you’re naught but a shopkeeper’s wife, and you can’t be a real lady, however hard you try. Why, my good man, what’s the use of her dressing herself up, and hanging herself all over with gew-gaws and furbelows like a heathen savage, and making a sight of herself, the Lord forgive us our sins! and rustling about with a long tail like a peacock ... why, it’s a sin and a shame, so it is! You can flaunt about in your furbelows as much as you like, Matryòna Sàvishna; but you’re none the more of a lady for that.... You can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. _Matryòna._ Yes; you’d like me to go about with an old shawl over my head! _Stepanìda._ You’ve no call to be ashamed of your own class, my girl. _Antìp._ Why, heart alive! Why shouldn’t she dress herself up fine if the money’s there? There’s no harm in it. And as for being a lady, hang me if she isn’t handsomer than any lady when she’s dressed in her best things! By your leave, mother, I don’t think all these fine ladies are worth the trouble of looking at. But just see what my little wife is like.... That’s to say, I mean, what a figure she’s got!... and all that, you know. _Matryòna._ Really, Antìp Antìpych, what things you do say! _Màrya._ I wonder you’re not ashamed of yourself, brother! You always make one blush. _Antìp._ What’s the matter now? I haven’t said anything so dreadful. Another day a man may say worse things than that, and nobody cares. Why, the other day, before his Excellency the General, such a word slipped off my tongue, I was quite frightened myself; but what can a fellow do? A word isn’t a sparrow, that you can put salt on its tail. And as for what you were saying, mother, I stick to my point. My wife shall dress as fine as she likes; I don’t care if she isn’t a lady, all the same.... _Stepanìda._ Yes; I know, my boy, I know. When she goes out with you dressed up like that, with a train two yards long, what do you suppose she’s thinking about? Well, I’ll tell you my son, she thinks—“Here have I got to put up with a great clumsy husband with a beard, instead of having a proper sort of beau that pomades his hair and puts scent on his handkerchief!” _Antìp._ Do you think she’d change me for any one else? A handsome fellow like me! (_Strokes his moustache._) I say, wife, give us a kiss! (MATRYÒNA _kisses him with feigned tenderness._)