rom afar the roof of his
house, Foma involuntarily moved forward. At the same time Mayakin asked
him with a roguish and gentle smile:

"Foma! Tell me--on whom you have sharpened your teeth? Eh?"

"Why, are they sharp?" asked Foma, pleased with the manner in which
Mayakin now regarded him.

"Pretty good. That's good, dear. That's very good! Your father and I
were afraid lest you should be a laggard. Well, have you learned to
drink vodka?"

"I drank it."

"Rather too soon! Did you drink much of it?"

"Why much?"

"Does it taste good?"

"Not very."

"So. Never mind, all this is not so bad. Only you are too outspoken.
You are ready to confess all your sins to each and every pope that comes
along. You must consider it isn't always necessary to do that. Sometimes
by keeping silent you both please people and commit no sins. Yes. A
man's tongue is very seldom sober. Here we are. See, your father does
not know that you have arrived. Is he home yet, I wonder?"

He was at home: his loud, somewhat hoarse laughter was heard from the
open windows of the rooms. The noise of the carriage, which stopped at
the house, caused Ignat to look out of the window, and at the sight of
his son he cried out with joy:

"Ah! You've come."

After a while he pressed Foma to his breast with one hand, and, pressing
the palm of his other hand against his son's forehead, thus bending
his head back, he looked into his face with beaming eyes and spoke
contentedly:

"You are sunburnt. You've grown strong. You're a fine fellow! Madame!
How's my son? Isn't he fine?"

"Not bad looking," a gentle, silver voice was heard. Foma glanced from
behind his father's shoulder and noticed that a slender woman with
magnificent fair hair was sitting in the front corner of the room,
resting her elbows on the table; her dark eyes, her thin eyebrows and
plump, red lips strikingly defined on her pale face. Behind her armchair
stood a large philodendron-plant whose big, figured leaves were hanging
down in the air over her little golden head.

"How do you do, Sophya Pavlovna," said Mayakin, tenderly, approaching
her with his hand outstretched. "What, are you still collecting
contributions from poor people like us?"

Foma bowed to her mutely, not hearing her answer to Mayakin, nor what
his father was saying to him. The lady stared at him steadfastly and
smiled to him affably and serenely. Her childlike figure, clothed in
some kind of dark fabric, was almost