looking at the
Little Russian.

"Because there's a resemblance!"

Suddenly Nikolay broke into a loud guffaw, his mouth opening wide.

"What is it?" the Little Russian asked in surprise, stopping in front
of him.

"It struck me that he'd be a fool who'd want to insult you!" Nikolay
declared, shaking his head.

"Why, how can you insult me?" asked the Little Russian, shrugging his
shoulders.

"I don't know," said Vyesovshchikov, grinning good-naturedly or perhaps
condescendingly. "I only wanted to say that a man must feel mighty
ashamed of himself after he'd insulted you."

"There now! See where you got to!" laughed the Little Russian.

"Andriusha!" the mother called from the kitchen. "Come get the
samovar. It's ready!"

Andrey walked out of the room, and Vyesovshchikov, left alone, looked
about, stretched out his foot sheathed in a coarse, heavy boot, looked
at it, bent down, and felt the stout calf of his legs. Then he raised
one hand to his face, carefully examined the palm, and turned it
around. His short-fingered hand was thick, and covered with yellowish
hair. He waved it in the air, and arose.

When Andrey brought in the samovar, Vyesovshchikov was standing before
the mirror, and greeted him with these words:

"It's a long time since I've seen my face." Then he laughed and added:
"It's an ugly face I have!"

"What's that to you?" asked Andrey, turning a curious look upon him.

"Sashenka says the face is the mirror of the heart!" Nikolay replied,
bringing out the words slowly.

"It's not true, though!" the little Russian ejaculated. "She has a
nose like a mushroom, cheek bones like a pair of scissors; yet her
heart is like a bright little star."

They sat down to drink tea.

Vyesovshchikov took a big potato, heavily salted a slice of bread, and
began to chew slowly and deliberately, like an ox.

"And how are matters here?" he asked, with his mouth full.

When Andrey cheerfully recounted to him the growth the socialist
propaganda in the factory, he again grew morose and remarked dully:

"It takes too long! Too long, entirely! It ought go faster!"

The mother regarded him, and was seized with a feeling of hostility
toward this man.

"Life is not a horse; you can't set it galloping with a whip," said
Andrey.

But Vyesovshchikov stubbornly shook his head, and proceeded:

"It's slow! I haven't the patience. What am I to do?" He opened his
arms in a gesture of helplessness, and