After his quarrel with Foma, Yakov Tarasovich returned home, gloomy and pensive. His eyes flashed drily, and he straightened himself like a tightly-stretched string. His wrinkles shrank painfully, his face seemed to have become smaller and darker, and when Lubov saw him in this state it appeared to her that he was seriously ill, but that he was forcing and restraining himself. Mutely and nervously the old man flung himself about the room, casting in reply to his daughter’s questions, dry curt words, and finally shouted to her: “Leave me alone! You see it has nothing to do with you.” She felt sorry for him when she noticed the gloomy and melancholy expression of his keen, green eyes; she made it her duty to question him as to what had happened to him, and when he seated himself at the dinner-table she suddenly approached him, placed her hands on his shoulders, and looking down into his face, asked him tenderly and anxiously: “Papa, are you ill? tell me!” Her caresses were extremely rare; they always softened the lonely old man, and though he did not respond to them for some reason or other he nevertheless could not help appreciating them. And now he shrugged his shoulders, thus throwing off her hands and said: “Go, go to your place. How the itching curiosity of Eve gives you no rest.” But Lubov did not go away; persistingly looking into his eyes, she asked, with an offended tone in her voice: “Papa, why do you always speak to me in such a way as though I were a small child, or very stupid?” “Because you are grown up and yet not very clever. Yes! That’s the whole story! Go, sit down and eat!” She walked away and silently seated herself opposite her father, compressing her lips for affront. Contrary to his habits Mayakin ate slowly, stirring his spoon in his plate of cabbage-soup for a long time, and examining the soup closely. “If your obstructed mind could but comprehend your father’s thoughts!” said he, suddenly, as he sighed with a sort of whistling sound. Lubov threw her spoon aside and almost with tears in her voice, said: “Why do you insult me, papa? You see that I am alone, always alone! You understand how difficult my life is, and you never say a single kind word to me. You never say anything to me! And you are also lonely; life is difficult for you too, I can see it. You find it very hard to live, but you alone are to blame for it! You alone! “Now Balaam’s she-ass has also started to talk!” said the old man, laughing. “Well! what will be next?” “You are very proud of your wisdom, papa.” “And what else?” “That isn’t good; and it pains me greatly. Why do you repulse me? You know that, save you, I have no one.” Tears leaped to her eyes; her father noticed them, and his face quivered. “If you were not a girl!” he exclaimed. “If you had as much brains as Marfa Poosadnitza, for instance. Eh, Lubov? Then I’d laugh at everybody, and at Foma. Come now, don’t cry!” She wiped her eyes and asked: “What about Foma?”