, frowning, "on a stone I expect . . .
damnation take it . . . ."

There was a look of distress on Gryabov's face. Sighing, moving
uneasily, and muttering oaths, he began tugging at the line.

"What a pity; I shall have to go into the water."

"Oh, chuck it!"

"I can't. . . . There's always good fishing in the evening. . . .
What a nuisance. Lord, forgive us, I shall have to wade into the
water, I must! And if only you knew, I have no inclination to
undress. I shall have to get rid of the Englishwoman. . . . It's
awkward to undress before her. After all, she is a lady, you know!"

Gryabov flung off his hat, and his cravat.

"Meess . . . er, er . . ." he said, addressing the Englishwoman,
"Meess Fyce, je voo pree . . . ? Well, what am I to say to her? How
am I to tell you so that you can understand? I say . . . over there!
Go away over there! Do you hear?"

Miss Fyce enveloped Gryabov in disdain, and uttered a nasal sound.

"What? Don't you understand? Go away from here, I tell you! I must
undress, you devil's doll! Go over there! Over there!"

Gryabov pulled the lady by her sleeve, pointed her towards the
bushes, and made as though he would sit down, as much as to say:
Go behind the bushes and hide yourself there. . . . The Englishwoman,
moving her eyebrows vigorously, uttered rapidly a long sentence in
English. The gentlemen gushed with laughter.

"It's the first time in my life I've heard her voice. There's no
denying, it is a voice! She does not understand! Well, what am I
to do with her?"

"Chuck it, let's go and have a drink of vodka!"

"I can't. Now's the time to fish, the evening. . . . It's evening
. . . . Come, what would you have me do? It is a nuisance! I shall
have to undress before her. . . ."

Gryabov flung off his coat and his waistcoat and sat on the sand
to take off his boots.

"I say, Ivan Kuzmitch," said the marshal, chuckling behind his hand.
"It's really outrageous, an insult."

"Nobody asks her not to understand! It's a lesson for these
foreigners!"

Gryabov took off his boots and his trousers, flung off his undergarments
and remained in the costume of Adam. Otsov held his sides, he turned
crimson both from laughter and embarrassment. The Englishwoman
twitched her brows and blinked . . . . A haughty, disdainful smile
passed over her yellow face.

"I must cool off," said Gryabov, slapping himself on the ribs. "Tell
me if you please, Fyodor Andreitch, why I have a rash on my ch