"Princess Volchanskaya herself made the promise to Vara. 'As soon,' she said, 'as you marry him, I'll hunt up an inspector's job for him.'" "But how can you think of marrying Varvara Dmitrievna?" asked the red-faced Falastov. "She's your first cousin." Everyone laughed. Peredonov's usually rosy, unconcerned, somnolent face showed anger. "Second cousin," he said gruffly, as he looked angrily past his companions. "Did the Princess give you the promise herself?" asked Routilov, a tall, pale, smartly dressed man. "She didn't give it to me, but to Vara," answered Peredonov. "Of course, you are ready to believe all she tells you," said Routilov with animation. "It's easy enough to make up a tale. Why didn't you see the Princess herself?" "This is how it was: I went with Vara, but we didn't find her in, missed her by just five minutes," explained Peredonov. "She had gone to the country, and wouldn't be back for three weeks or so. I couldn't wait for her, because I had to be back here for the exams." "It sounds suspicious," laughed Routilov, showing his yellow teeth. Peredonov grew thoughtful. His companions left him; Routilov alone remained. "Of course," said Peredonov, "I can marry whom I like. Varvara is not the only one." "You're quite right, Ardalyon Borisitch, anyone would be glad to marry you," Routilov encouraged him. They passed out of the gate, and walked slowly in the unpaved and dusty square. Peredonov said: "But what about the Princess? She'll be angry if I chuck Varvara." "What's the Princess to you?" said Routilov. "You're not going with her to a kitten's christening. She ought to get you the billet first. There'll be time enough to tie yourself up--you're taking things too much on trust!" "That's true," agreed Peredonov irresolutely. "You ought to say to Varvara," said Routilov persuasively, "'First the billet, my dear girl, then I'll believe you.' Once you get your place, you can marry whom you like. You'd better take one of my sisters--your choice of the three. Smart, educated, young ladies, any one of them, I can say without flattery, a queen to Varvara. She's not fit to tie their shoe-strings." "Go on," shouted Peredonov. "It's true. What's your Varvara? Here, smell this." Routilov bent down, broke off a fleecy stalk of henbane, crumpled it up in his hand, together with the leaves and dirty white flowers, and crushing it all between his fingers, put it under Peredonov's nose. The heavy unpleasant odour made Peredonov frown. Routilov observed: "To crush like this, and to throw away--there's your Varvara for you; there's a big difference between her and my sisters, let me tell you, my good fellow. They are fine, lively girls--take the one you like--but you needn't be afraid of getting bored with any of them. They're quite young too--the eldest is three times younger than your Varvara."