_Shiryàlov._ There was a piece of stuff that was left on hand. Two years ago the price of it was two roubles forty the _arshin_; but this year they’d marked it eighty kopecks. Well, sir, as I sat in the shop there came in two ladies, and asked for some stuff for blouses to wear in the house. “Certainly, ma’am,” says I. “Mìtya, bring that last new material. Here’s a fine stuff,” said I. “And what’s the price?” said the lady. “Two and a half roubles it cost me,” says I; “and profit—what you please, ma’am.” “I’ll give one rouble eighty,” says she. What do you think of that, Antìp Antìpych? One rouble eighty. “Oh! no, ma’am,” says I; “I couldn’t possibly let it go for that.” Well, they haggled a bit, and said they’d give two roubles. Hear that? Two roubles! (_Laughs._) “How much do you want?” says I. “Twenty-five arshin” “Can’t do it, ma’am,” says I; “if you’ll take the whole piece, I don’t mind letting it go at two roubles.” You see, the thing was that I didn’t dare touch the stuff. (_Laughs._) I was afraid to lay a finger on it. For anything I knew, it might be all rotten inside. Well, my ladies talked it over, and took the whole piece. You should just have seen how the shopmen stared. (_Laughs._) _Antìp._ Why, that’s capital! That’s first-rate! Have a drink, neighbour. (_They drink._) _Shiryàlov._ But Sènka’s not that sort; oh, no! Sènka’s not that sort at all. (_Sighs._) My good sir, he goes to the theatre every blessed day. He knows everybody there; he’s made friends with them all; every sort of rabble comes dangling after him. What do you think! The other day I called in at Ostolòpov’s. “Just give me that money,” says he. “What money?” says I. “For the shawl.” “What shawl?” “Why, that your son bought.” I thought to myself: “What in the world can he want with a shawl?” Of course, I knew I shouldn’t get the truth out of _him_, so I began making inquiries; and would you believe it, sir, he’s got one of these actress girls! _Antìp._ Well, I never did!... _Shiryàlov._ What would you have me do with him? That’s more than I can stand; I’m ashamed to acknowledge him. _Antìp._ The fact is, that it’s time to marry him. You must find the boy a wife. _Shiryàlov._ Wait a bit, Antìp Antìpych; that’s not the worst of it; the worst is that there’s no end; it’s just like pouring water into a sieve. It’s a shawl to-day, it’ll be a sable cloak to-morrow; and for all I know a furnished house next day; and then a carriage and pair; and then heaven knows what; its worse than the horseleech! _Antìp._ Very true. _Shiryàlov._ And you know, when a man gets entangled with them, he’s like one blind. That sort of company is just ruin, Antìp Antìpych. _Antìp._ You’re right there; a man loses his head altogether. There’s only one thing to do, neighbor—to get him married quick. _Shiryàlov._ It’s easy to say, “Get him married”; but how am I to do it?