sat in his room Kistunov heard
two voices: the monotonous, restrained bass of Alexey Nikolaitch
and the shrill, wailing voice of Madame Shtchukin.

"I am a weak, defenceless woman, I am a woman in delicate health,"
said Madame Shtchukin. "I look strong, but if you were to overhaul
me there is not one healthy fibre in me. I can scarcely keep on my
feet, and my appetite is gone. . . . I drank my cup of coffee this
morning without the slightest relish. . . ."

Alexey Nikolaitch explained to her the difference between the
departments and the complicated system of sending in papers. He was
soon exhausted, and his place was taken by the accountant.

"A wonderfully disagreeable woman!" said Kistunov, revolted, nervously
cracking his fingers and continually going to the decanter of water.
"She's a perfect idiot! She's worn me out and she'll exhaust them,
the nasty creature! Ough! . . . my heart is throbbing."

Half an hour later he rang his bell. Alexey Nikolaitch made his
appearance.

"How are things going?" Kistunov asked languidly.

"We can't make her see anything, Pyotr Alexandritch! We are simply
done. We talk of one thing and she talks of something else."

"I . . . I can't stand the sound of her voice. . . . I am ill
. . . . I can't bear it."

"Send for the porter, Pyotr Alexandritch, let him put her out."

"No, no," cried Kistunov in alarm. "She will set up a squeal, and
there are lots of flats in this building, and goodness knows what
they would think of us. . . . Do try and explain to her, my dear
fellow. . . ."

A minute later the deep drone of Alexey Nikolaitch's voice was
audible again. A quarter of an hour passed, and instead of his bass
there was the murmur of the accountant's powerful tenor."

"Re-mark-ably nasty woman," Kistunov thought indignantly, nervously
shrugging his shoulders. "No more brains than a sheep. I believe
that's a twinge of the gout again. . . . My migraine is coming
back. . . ."

In the next room Alexey Nikolaitch, at the end of his resources,
at last tapped his finger on the table and then on his own forehead.

"The fact of the matter is you haven't a head on your shoulders,"
he said, "but this."

"Come, come," said the old lady, offended. "Talk to your own wife
like that. . . . You screw! . . . Don't be too free with your hands."

And looking at her with fury, with exasperation, as though he would
devour her, Alexey Nikolaitch said in a quiet, stifled voice:

"Clear out