“Well, tell us how was the trip? Have you squandered much money?” roared Ignat, pushing his son into the same armchair where Medinskaya had been sitting awhile before. Foma looked at him askance and seated himself in another chair. “Isn’t she a beautiful young woman, eh?” said Mayakin, smiling, feeling Foma with his cunning eyes. “If you keep on gaping at her she will eat away all your insides.” Foma shuddered for some reason or other, and, saying nothing in reply, began to tell his father about the journey in a matter-of-fact tone. But Ignat interrupted him: “Wait, I’ll ask for some cognac.” “And you are keeping on drinking all the time, they say,” said Foma, disapprovingly. Ignat glanced at his son with surprise and curiosity, and asked: “Is this the way to speak to your father?” Foma became confused and lowered his head. “That’s it!” said Ignat, kind-heartedly, and ordered cognac to be brought to him. Mayakin, winking his eyes, looked at the Gordyeeffs, sighed, bid them good-bye, and, after inviting them to have tea with him in his raspberry garden in the evening, went away. “Where is Aunt Anfisa?” asked Foma, feeling that now, being alone with his father, he was somewhat ill at ease. “She went to the cloister. Well, tell me, and I will have some cognac.” Foma told his father all about his affairs in a few minutes and he concluded his story with a frank confession: “I have spent much money on myself.” “How much?” “About six hundred roubles.” “In six weeks! That’s a good deal. I see as a clerk you’re too expensive for me. Where have you squandered it all?” “I gave away three hundred puds of grain.” “To whom? How?” Foma told him all about it. “Hm! Well, that’s all right!” Ignat approved. “That’s to show what stuff we are made of. That’s clear enough--for the father’s honour--for the honour of the firm. And there is no loss either, because that gives a good reputation. And that, my dear, is the very best signboard for a business. Well, what else?” “And then, I somehow spent more.” “Speak frankly. It’s not the money that I am asking you about--I just want to know how you lived there,” insisted Ignat, regarding his son attentively and sternly. “I was eating, drinking.” Foma did not give in, bending his head morosely and confusedly. “Drinking vodka?” “Vodka, too.” “Ah! So. Isn’t it rather too soon?” “Ask Yefim whether I ever drank enough to be intoxicated.” “Why should I ask Yefim? You must tell me everything yourself. So you are drinking? I don’t like it.” “But I can get along without drinking.” “Come, come! Do you want some cognac?” Foma looked at his father and smiled broadly. And his father answered him with a kindly smile: