Praskovia Ivanovna was agreeably impressed by Pyetushkov. He was formal and decorous in his manners, and moreover, wasn't he a man of some rank, too?
'Praskovia Ivanovna, ma'am, I like your rolls very much,' he said to her.
'Really now, really now.'
'Very good they are, you know, very, indeed.'
'May they do you good, sir, may they do you good. Delighted, to be sure.'
'I've never eaten any like them in Moscow.'
'You don't say so now, you don't say so.'
Again a silence followed.
'Tell me, Praskovia Ivanovna,' began Ivan Afanasiitch; 'that's your niece, I fancy, isn't it, living with you?'
'My own niece, sir.'
'How comes it . . . she's with you?' . . .
'She's an orphan, so I keep her.'
'And is she a good worker?'
'Such a girl to work . . . such a girl, sir . . . ay . . . ay . . . to be sure she is.'
Ivan Afanasiitch thought it discreet not to pursue the subject of the niece further.
'What bird is that you have in the cage, Praskovia Ivanovna?'
'God knows. A bird of some sort.'
'H'm! Well, so, good day to you, Praskovia Ivanovna.'
'A very good day to your honour. Pray walk in another time, and take a cup of tea.'
268
