Marya at first opened her eyes wide at the sight of the unwonted couple, but she guessed from her husband's perturbed look, that there was no room for objections, and in her womanly kind-heartedness quickly understood what she was expected to do.
Quieted and confused, Garaska sat down at the decorated table. He felt ashamed enough to sink into the ground. Ashamed of his rags, of his dirty hands, ashamed of his whole self, torn, drunken, disgusting as he was. Scalding himself with the deuced hot soup, swimming with fat, he spilt it on the table-cloth, and although the hostess with delicacy pretended not to have noticed it, he grew confused and spilt still more; so unbearably did those shrivelled fingers tremble with those great dirty nails, which Garaska now noticed for the first time.
"Ivan Akindinich, what surprise have you for Jacky?" asked Marya.
"Never mindlater on," hurriedly replied Bargamot. He was scalding himself with the soup, blew on his spoon, and stolidly wiped his moustache—but through all this solidity the same amazement was apparent, as in the case of Garaska.
Marya hospitably pressed her guest to eat.
"Garasim," she said, "how are you called after your father's name?"
"Andreich."
"Welcome, Garasim Andreich."
