'Yes.'
Vassilissa passed her hand over her hair and walked a little more slowly. Ivan Afanasiitch smiled, and, his heart inwardly sinking with timidity, he stooped a little on one side and put a trembling arm about the beauty's waist.
Vassilissa uttered a shriek.
'Give over, do, for shame, in the street.'
'Come now, there, there,' muttered Ivan Afanasiitch.
'Give over, I tell you, in the street. . . Don't be rude.'
'A . . . a . . . ah, what a girl you are!' said Pyetushkov reproachfully, while he blushed up to his ears.
Vassilissa stood still.
'Now go along with you, sir—go along, do.'
Pyetushkov obeyed. He got home, and sat for a whole hour without moving from his chair, without even smoking his pipe. At last he took out a sheet of greyish paper, mended a pen, and after long deliberation wrote the following letter.
'Dear Madam, Vassilissa Timofyevna!—
Being naturally a most inoffensive person, how could I have occasioned you annoyance? If I have really been to blame in my conduct to you, then I must tell you: the hints of Mr. Bublitsyn were responsible for this, which was what I never expected. Anyway, I must
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