the hungry penny-a-liners, who can never see beyond their noses, and fancy they are . . . geniuses of the first rank? We would appoint Boris Andreevitch president.'
Madame Sipyagin laughed more than ever.
'You must take care; Boris Andreevitch is sometimes such a Jacobin———'
'Jackó, jackó, jackó,' called the parrot.
Valentina Mihalovna shook her handkerchief at him.
'Don't prevent sensible people from talking! . . . Marianna, quiet him.'
Marianna turned to the cage and began scratching the parrot's neck, which he offered her at once.
'Yes', Madame Sipyagin continued, 'Boris Andreevitch sometimes astonishes me. He has something . . . something . . . of the tribune in him.'
'Cest parce qu'il est orateur!' Kallomyetsev interposed hotly in French. 'Your husband has the gift of words, as no else has; he's accustomed to success, too . . . ses propres paroles le grisent . . . add to that a liking for popularity . . . But he's a little off all that, isn't he? Il boude?─eh?'
Madame Sipyagin glanced towards Marianna.
'I have not noticed it,' she replied after a brief silence.
66
