“I don’t ask much.  Give me twenty-five roubles and the stuff for a dress, as is usual, and I will say thank you . . . but for the dowry, that’s a different account.”

Stytchkin folded his arms over his chest and fell to pondering in silence.  After some thought he heaved a sigh and said: 

“That’s dear. . . .”

“It’s not at all dear, Nikolay Nikolayitch!  In old days when there were lots of weddings one did do it cheaper, but nowadays what are our earnings?  If you make fifty roubles in a month that is not a fast, you may be thankful.  It’s not on weddings we make our money, my good sir.”

Stytchkin looked at the matchmaker in amazement and shrugged his shoulders.

“H’m! . . .  Do you call fifty roubles little?” he asked.

“Of course it is little!  In old days we sometimes made more than a hundred.”

“H’m!  I should never have thought it was possible to earn such a sum by these jobs.  Fifty roubles!  It is not every man that earns as much!  Pray drink your wine. . . .”

The matchmaker drained her glass without winking.  Stytchkin looked her over from head to foot in silence, then said: 

“Fifty roubles. . . .  Why, that is six hundred roubles a year. . . .  Please take some more. . .  With such dividends, you know, Lyubov Grigoryevna, you would have no difficulty in making a match for yourself. . . .”

“For myself,” laughed the matchmaker, “I am an old woman.”

“Not at all. . . .  You have such a figure, and your face is plump and fair, and all the rest of it.”

The matchmaker was embarrassed.  Stytchkin was also embarrassed and sat down beside her.

“You are still very attractive,” said he; “if you met with a practical, steady, careful husband, with his salary and your earnings you might even attract him very much, and you’d get on very well together. . . .”

“Goodness knows what you are saying, Nikolay Nikolayitch.”

“Well, I meant no harm. . . .”

A silence followed.  Stytchkin began loudly blowing his nose, while the matchmaker turned crimson, and looking bashfully at him, asked: 

“And how much do you get, Nikolay Nikolayitch?”

“I?  Seventy-five roubles, besides tips. . . .  Apart from that we make something out of candles and hares.”

“You go hunting, then?”

“No.  Passengers who travel without tickets are called hares with us.”

Another minute passed in silence.  Stytchkin got up and walked about the room in excitement.

“I don’t want a young wife,” said he.  “I am a middle-aged man, and I want someone who . . . as it might be like you . . . staid and settled and a figure something like yours. . . .”

“Goodness knows what you are saying . . .” giggled the matchmaker, hiding her crimson face in her kerchief.

“There is no need to be long thinking about it.  You are after my own heart, and you suit me in your qualities.  I am a practical, sober man, and if you like me . . . what could be better?  Allow me to make you a proposal!”