“Whom? Why, any one you like.” “You mean the Bride?” Tikhon Ilitch flushed deeply. “Fool! What’s wrong with the Bride? She’s a peaceable, hard-working woman--” Deniska remained silent, and picked with his finger-nail at one of the tin nailheads on the valise. Then he pretended to be stupid. “There’s a lot of them--of young women,” he drawled. “I don’t know which one you’re jabbering about. Do you happen to mean the one with whom you lived?” But Tikhon Ilitch had already recovered his composure. “Whether I have lived with her or not is none of your business, you pig,” he retorted, and that so swiftly and peremptorily that Deniska submissively muttered: “Well, ’tis all the same to me. I only said--’Twas a chance remark--slipped off my tongue.” “Well, then, mind what you’re about, and don’t indulge in idle chatter. I’ll make decent people of you. Do you understand? I’ll give you a dowry. Understand that?” Deniska reflected. “I think I’ll go to Tula--” he began. “The cock has found a pearl! A priceless idea! What are you going to do in Tula?” “We’re too starved at home.” Tikhon Ilitch unfastened his coat, thrust his hand into the pocket of his sleeveless under-kaftan--he had almost made up his mind to give Deniska a twenty-kopek coin. But he came to his senses--’twas stupid to squander his money, and, what was more, that dolt would become conceited, would say he had been bribed. So he pretended to be hunting for something. “Ah, I’ve forgotten my cigarettes! Come, give me some tobacco.” Deniska gave him his tobacco-pouch. The lantern over the station entrance had already been lighted, and by its dim light Tikhon Ilitch read aloud the inscription embroidered in coarse white thread on the bag: “To whoam I luv I giv I luv hartilie I giv a poch foureaver.” “That’s clever!” he said, when he had finished reading. Deniska modestly cast down his eyes. “So you have a lady-love already?” “There’s a lot of them, the hussies, roaming about!” replied Deniska, quite unembarrassed. “But as for marrying--I don’t refuse. I’ll be back by the Meat-days, and then, Lord bless our marriage!” From behind the palisade thundered a peasant cart, spattered all over with mud. It rolled up to the platform with a peasant perched on the side-rail and the deacon, Govoroff, from Ulianovka, seated on the straw inside. “Has it gone?” shouted the deacon in agitated tones, thrusting out of the straw one foot in a new overshoe. Every individual hair of his frowsy, reddish-sandy beard curled turbulently; his cap had retreated to the nape of his neck: his face was fiery-red from the wind and his excitement. “The train, you mean?” inquired Tikhon Ilitch. “No, sir, it hasn’t even arrived yet. Good morning, Father Deacon.” “Aha! Well then, thank God!” said the deacon joyfully and hastily; but nevertheless he leaped from the cart and rushed headlong to the door.