Firmly and kind-heartedly shaking Ookhtishchev’s hand, Foma asked him: “And what makes you think that I am modest?” “What a question! A man, who lives like a hermit, who neither drinks, nor plays, nor likes any women. By the way, do you know, Foma Ignatyevich, that peerless patroness of ours is going abroad tomorrow for the whole summer?” “Sophya Pavlovna?” asked Foma, slowly. “Of course! The sun of my life is setting. And, perhaps, of yours as well?” Ookhtishchev made a comical, sly grimace and looked into Foma’s face. And Foma stood before him, feeling that his head was lowering on his breast, and that he was unable to hinder it. “Yes, the radiant Aurora.” “Is Medinskaya going away?” a deep bass voice asked. “That’s fine! I am glad.” “May I know why?” exclaimed Ookhtishchev. Foma smiled sheepishly and stared in confusion at the whiskered man, Ookhtishchev’s interlocutor. That man was stroking his moustache with an air of importance, and deep, heavy, repulsive words fell from his lips on Foma’s ears. “Because, you see, there will be one co-cot-te less in town.” “Shame, Martin Nikitich!” said Ookhtishchev, reproachfully, knitting his brow. “How do you know that she is a coquette?” asked Foma, sternly, coming closer to the whiskered man. The man measured him with a scornful look, turned aside and moving his thigh, drawled out: “I didn’t say--coquette.” “Martin Nikitich, you mustn’t speak that way about a woman who--” began Ookhtishchev in a convincing tone, but Foma interrupted him: “Excuse me, just a moment! I wish to ask the gentleman, what is the meaning of the word he said?” And as he articulated this firmly and calmly, Foma thrust his hands deep into his trousers-pockets, threw his chest forward, which at once gave his figure an attitude of defiance. The whiskered gentleman again eyed Foma with a sarcastic smile. “Gentlemen!” exclaimed Ookhtishchev, softly. “I said, co-cot-te,” pronounced the whiskered man, moving his lips as if he tasted the word. “And if you don’t understand it, I can explain it to you.” “You had better explain it,” said Foma, with a deep sigh, not lifting his eyes off the man. Ookhtishchev clasped his hands and rushed aside. “A cocotte, if you want to know it, is a prostitute,” said the whiskered man in a low voice, moving his big, fat face closer to Foma. Foma gave a soft growl and, before the whiskered man had time to move away, he clutched with his right hand his curly, grayish hair. With a convulsive movement of the hand, Foma began to shake the man’s head and his big, solid body; lifting up his left hand, he spoke in a dull voice, keeping time to the punishment: “Don’t abuse a person--in his absence. Abuse him--right in his face--straight in his eyes.”