at is not a
fast, you may be thankful. It's not on weddings we make our money,
my good sir."

Stytchkin looked at the matchmaker in amazement and shrugged his
shoulders.

"H'm! . . . Do you call fifty roubles little?" he asked.

"Of course it is little! In old days we sometimes made more than a
hundred."

"H'm! I should never have thought it was possible to earn such a
sum by these jobs. Fifty roubles! It is not every man that earns
as much! Pray drink your wine. . . ."

The matchmaker drained her glass without winking. Stytchkin looked
her over from head to foot in silence, then said:

"Fifty roubles. . . . Why, that is six hundred roubles a year. . . .
Please take some more. . . With such dividends, you know, Lyubov
Grigoryevna, you would have no difficulty in making a match for
yourself. . . ."

"For myself," laughed the matchmaker, "I am an old woman."

"Not at all. . . . You have such a figure, and your face is plump
and fair, and all the rest of it."

The matchmaker was embarrassed. Stytchkin was also embarrassed and
sat down beside her.

"You are still very attractive," said he; "if you met with a
practical, steady, careful husband, with his salary and your earnings
you might even attract him very much, and you'd get on very well
together. . . ."

"Goodness knows what you are saying, Nikolay Nikolayitch."

"Well, I meant no harm. . . ."

A silence followed. Stytchkin began loudly blowing his nose, while
the matchmaker turned crimson, and looking bashfully at him, asked:

"And how much do you get, Nikolay Nikolayitch?"

"I? Seventy-five roubles, besides tips. . . . Apart from that we
make something out of candles and hares."

"You go hunting, then?"

"No. Passengers who travel without tickets are called hares with
us."

Another minute passed in silence. Stytchkin got up and walked about
the room in excitement.

"I don't want a young wife," said he. "I am a middle-aged man, and
I want someone who . . . as it might be like you . . . staid and
settled and a figure something like yours. . . ."

"Goodness knows what you are saying . . ." giggled the matchmaker,
hiding her crimson face in her kerchief.

"There is no need to be long thinking about it. You are after my
own heart, and you suit me in your qualities. I am a practical,
sober man, and if you like me . . . what could be better? Allow me
to make you a proposal!"

The matchmaker dropped a tear, laughed, and, in token of her consent