'Home manufacture,' said Tchitchikov, 'but of the best sort that goes under the name of English.'
'What colours do you desire?' asked the shopkeeper, still agreeably swaying with his two hands pressed on the table.
'Some dark colour, olive or bottle green, shot with something approaching the cranberry colour,' said Tchitchikov.
'I may say that I can give you a first-class article as good as anything in Petersburg or Moscow,' said the shopkeeper, clambering up to get a roll of cloth; he flung it lightly on the counter, unrolled it from the other end, and held it up to the light. 'What a sheen! The most fashionable, the latest style!' The cloth shone as though it were of silk. The shopkeeper divined that he had before him a connoisseur in cloth and did not care to begin with the ten rouble quality.
'Very fair,' said Tchitchikov, barely glancing at it. 'Look here, my good man, show me now what you are keeping to show me last, and a colour that has more … more red sheen in it.'
'I understand: you really desire the colour that is just coming into fashion. I have got a cloth of the very finest quality. But I must warn you that it is a very high price, but there, it is of the very highest quality.'
The roll fell from above. The shopkeeper unrolled it with still greater dexterity; he caught
