“Ah, you don’t have to tell us,” sighs Anna Markovna, letting her lower, raspberry-coloured lip hang down and with a mist coming over her faded eyes. “We keep our Birdie—she is in Fleisher’s high school—we purposely keep her in town, in a respectable family. You understand, it is awkward, after all. And all of a sudden she brings such words and expressions from the high school that I just simply turned all red.” “Honest to God, Annochka turned all red,” confirms Isaiah Savvich. “You’ll turn red, all right!” warmly agrees the inspector. “Yes, yes, yes, I understand you fully. But, my God, where are we going! Where are we only going? I ask you, what are these revolutionaries and all these various students, or... what-you-may-call-’ems? ... trying to attain? And let them put the blame on none but themselves. Corruption is everywhere, morality is falling, there is no respect for parents. They ought to be shot.” “Well, now, the day before yesterday we had a case,” Zociya mixes in bustlingly. “A certain guest came, a stout man...” “Drop it!” Emma Edwardovna, who was listening to the inspector, piously nodding with her head bowed to one side, cuts her short in the jargon of the brothels. “You’d better go and see about breakfast for the young ladies.” “And not a single person can be relied upon,” continues the proprietress grumblingly. “Not a servant but what she’s a stiff, a faker. And all the girls ever think about is their lovers. Just so’s they may have their own pleasure. But about their duties they don’t even think.” There is an awkward silence. Some one knocks on the door. A thin, feminine voice speaks on the other side of the door: “Housekeeper, dear, take the money and be kind enough to give me the stamps. Pete’s gone.” The inspector gets up and adjusts his sabre. “Well, it’s time I was going to work. Best regards, Anna Markovna. Best wishes, Isaiah Savvich.” “Perhaps you’ll have one more little glass for a stirrup cup?” the nearly blind Isaiah Savvich thrusts himself over the table. “Tha-ank you. I can’t. Full to the gills. Honoured, I’m sure! ...” “Thanks for your company. Drop in some time.” “Always glad to be your guest, sir. Au revoir!” But in the doorway he stops for a minute and says significantly: “But still, my advice to you is—you’d better pass this girl on to some place or other in good time. Of course, it’s your affair, but as a good friend of yours I give you warning.” He goes away. When his steps are abating on the stairs and the front door bangs to behind him, Emma Edwardovna snorts through her nose and says contemptuously: “Stool-pigeon! He wants to take money both here and there...” Little by little they all crawl apart out of the room. It is dark in the house. It smells sweetly of the half-withered sedge. Quiet reigns. CHAPTER III.