“I do not doubt it in the least.” They both ceased speaking and, as before, clouds of smoke rose silently from their mouths and curled feebly above their shaggy heads. A sound of goloshes was heard from the passage. “There he is,” Mashurina whispered. The door opened slightly and a head was thrust in, but it was not the head of Nejdanov. It was a round head with rough black hair, a broad wrinkled forehead, bright brown eyes under thick eyebrows, a snub nose and a humorously-set mouth. The head looked round, nodded, smiled, showing a set of tiny white teeth, and came into the room with its feeble body, short arms, and bandy legs, which were a little lame. As soon as Mashurina and Ostrodumov caught sight of this head, an expression of contempt mixed with condescension came over their faces, as if each was thinking inwardly, “What a nuisance!” but neither moved nor uttered a single word. The newly arrived guest was not in the least taken aback by this reception, however; on the contrary it seemed to amuse him. “What is the meaning of this?” he asked in a squeaky voice. “A duet? Why not a trio? And where’s the chief tenor?” “Do you mean Nejdanov, Mr. Paklin?” Ostrodumov asked solemnly. “Yes, Mr. Ostrodumov.” “He will be back directly, Mr. Paklin.” “I am glad to hear that, Mr. Ostrodumov.” The little cripple turned to Mashurina. She frowned, and continued leisurely puffing her cigarette. “How are you, my dear... my dear... I am so sorry. I always forget your Christian name and your father’s name.” Mashurina shrugged her shoulders. “There is no need for you to know it. I think you know my surname. What more do you want? And why do you always keep on asking how I am? You see that I am still in the land of the living!” “Of course!” Paklin exclaimed, his face twitching nervously. “If you had been elsewhere, your humble servant would not have had the pleasure of seeing you here, and of talking to you! My curiosity is due to a bad, old-fashioned habit. But with regard to your name, it is awkward, somehow, simply to say Mashurina. I know that even in letters you only sign yourself Bonaparte! I beg pardon, Mashurina, but in conversation, however—” “And who asks you to talk to me, pray?” Paklin gave a nervous, gulpy laugh. “Well, never mind, my dear. Give me your hand. Don’t be cross. I know you mean well, and so do I.... Well?” Paklin extended his hand, Mashurina looked at him severely and extended her own. “If you really want to know my name,” she said with the same expression of severity on her face, “I am called Fiekla.” “And I, Pemien,” Ostrodumov added in his bass voice. “How very instructive! Then tell me, Oh Fiekla! and you, Oh Pemien! why you are so unfriendly, so persistently unfriendly to me when I—” “Mashurina thinks,” Ostrodumov interrupted him, “and not only Mashurina, that you are not to be depended upon, because you always laugh at everything.” Paklin turned round on his heels.