Baburin shrugged his shoulders slightly.
'I can't tell what he sees fit to call peculiarities. Possibly that I . . . don't allow corporal punishment.'
My grandmother was surprised. 'Do you mean to say Yakov Petrovitch wanted to flog you?'
Baburin's swarthy face grew red to the roots of his hair.
'You have not understood me right, madam. I make it a rule not to employ corporal punishment . . . with the peasants.'
My grandmother was more surprised than ever; she positively threw up her hands.
'Ah!' she pronounced at last, and putting her head a little on one side, once more she scrutinised Baburin attentively. 'So that's your rule, is it? Well, that's of no consequence whatever to me; I don't want an overseer, but a counting-house clerk, a secretary. What sort of a hand do you write?'
'I write well, without mistakes in spelling.'
'That too is of no consequence to me. The great thing for me is for it to be clear, and without any of those new copybook letters with tails, that I don't like. And what's your other peculiarity?'
Baburin moved uneasily, coughed. . . .
'Perhaps . . . the gentleman has referred to the fact that I am not alone.'
'You are married?'
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