"No," replied Peredonov, "it would be more of an advantage for me to marry Varvara. The Princess has promised her patronage. She will give me a good billet," he went on with grave animation. Vershina smiled faintly. Her entire wrinkled face, dark as if saturated with tobacco smoke, expressed a condescending incredulousness. She asked: "Did the Princess herself tell _you_ this?" She laid an emphasis on the word "you." "Not me, but Varvara," admitted Peredonov. "But it comes to the same thing." "You rely too much on your cousin's word," said Vershina spitefully. "But tell me, is she much older than you? Say, by fifteen years? Or more? she must be under fifty." "Nonsense," said Peredonov angrily, "she's not yet thirty!" Vershina laughed. "Please tell me," she said with unconcealed derision. "Surely, she looks much older than you. Of course, it's not my business, it's not my affair. Still, it is a pity that such a good-looking, clever young man should not have the position he deserves." Peredonov surveyed himself with great self-satisfaction. But there was no smile on his pink face and he seemed hurt because everybody did not appreciate him as Vershina did. "Even without patronage you'll go far," continued Vershina, "surely the authorities will recognise your value. Why should you hang on to Varvara? And none even of the Routilov girls would suit you; they're too frivolous and you need a more practical wife. You might do much worse than marry Marta!" Peredonov looked at his watch. "Time to go home," he observed and rose to say good-bye. Vershina was convinced that Peredonov was leaving because she had put to him a vital question and that it was only his indecision that prevented him from speaking about Marta immediately. [1] St. Petersburg. CHAPTER II Varvara Dmitrievna Maloshina, the mistress of Peredonov, awaited him. She was dressed in a slovenly fashion, and her face was powdered and rouged. Jam tarts were being baked in the oven for lunch: Peredonov was very fond of them. Varvara ran about the kitchen on her high heels, preparing everything for Peredonov's arrival. Varvara was afraid that Natalya, the stout, freckled servant-maid, would steal one of the tarts and possibly more. That was why Varvara did not leave the kitchen and, as she habitually did, was abusing the servant. Upon her wrinkled face, which still kept the remains of beauty, there was a continual expression of discontented maliciousness. A feeling of gloom and irritation came over Peredonov, as always happened when he returned home. He entered the dining-room noisily, flung his hat on the window-sill, sat down at the table and shouted: "Vara! Where's my food?" Varvara brought in the food, skilfully limping in her narrow, fashionable shoes, and waited upon Peredonov herself. When she brought the coffee Peredonov bent down to the steaming glass and smelt it. Varvara was disturbed and looked a little frightened; she asked: