“Aha! Yegor Ni-ko-la-aitch!” chanted Father Christopher. “ Mr. Lomonosov!”

“Ah, our gentleman that is to be,” said Kuzmitchov, “pleased to see you!”

Yegorushka took off his greatcoat, kissed his uncle’s hand and Father Christopher’s, and sat down to the table.

“Well, how did you like the journey, puer bone ?” Father Christopher pelted him with questions as he poured him out some tea, with his radiant smile. “Sick of it, I’ve no doubt? God save us all from having to travel by wagon or with oxen. You go on and on, God forgive us; you look ahead and the steppe is always lying stretched out the same as it was⁠—you can’t see the end of it! It’s not travelling but regular torture. Why don’t you drink your tea? Drink it up; and in your absence, while you have been trailing along with the wagons, we have settled all our business capitally. Thank God we have sold our wool to Tcherepahin, and no one could wish to have done better.⁠ ⁠… We have made a good bargain.”

At the first sight of his own people Yegorushka felt an overwhelming desire to complain. He did not listen to Father Christopher, but thought how to begin and what exactly to complain of. But Father Christopher’s voice, which seemed to him harsh and unpleasant, prevented him from concentrating his attention and confused his thoughts. He had not sat at the table five minutes before he got up, went to the sofa and lay down.