his hat, Pyetushkov approached her. Praskovia Ivanovna was apparently anticipating an honoured guest; her dress was fastened up at every hook. Pyetushkov sat down on a chair; Praskovia Ivanovna seated herself opposite him.
'I have come to you, Praskovia Ivanovna, more on account of . . .' Ivan Afanasiitch began at last—and then ceased. His lips were twitching spasmodically.
'You are kindly welcome, sir,' responded Praskovia Ivanovna in the proper sing-song, and with a bow. 'Always delighted to see a guest.'
Pyetushkov took courage a little.
'I have long wished, you know, to have the pleasure of making your acquaintance, Praskovia Ivanovna.'
'Much obliged to you, Ivan Afanasiitch.'
Followed a silence. Praskovia Ivanovna wiped her face with a parti-coloured handkerchief; Ivan Afanasiitch continued with intense attention to gaze away to one side. Both were rather uncomfortable. But in merchant and petty shopkeeper society, where even old friends never step outside special angular forms of etiquette, a certain constraint in the behaviour of guests and host to one another not only strikes no one as strange, but, on the contrary, is regarded as perfectly correct and indispensable, particularly on a first visit.
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