“Sh . . .  Sh! . . .  Hush!” cried Stinging Beetle; when all were silent she screwed up one eye and said:  “Do you know what, Annushka, my birdie . . . ?  There is no need for you to get married really like every one else.  You’re rich and free, you are your own mistress; but yet, my child, it doesn’t seem the right thing for you to be an old maid.  I’ll find you, you know, some trumpery and simple-witted man.  You’ll marry him for appearances and then have your fling, bonny lass!  You can hand him five thousand or ten maybe, and pack him off where he came from, and you will be mistress in your own house—­you can love whom you like and no one can say anything to you.  And then you can love your highly educated gentleman.  You’ll have a jolly time!” Stinging Beetle snapped her fingers and gave a whistle.

“It’s sinful,” said Auntie.

“Oh, sinful,” laughed Stinging Beetle.  “She is educated, she understands.  To cut some one’s throat or bewitch an old man—­ that’s a sin, that’s true; but to love some charming young friend is not a sin at all.  And what is there in it, really?  There’s no sin in it at all!  The old pilgrim women have invented all that to make fools of simple folk.  I, too, say everywhere it’s a sin; I don’t know myself why it’s a sin.”  Stinging Beetle emptied her glass and cleared her throat.  “Have your fling, bonny lass,” this time evidently addressing herself.  “For thirty years, wenches, I have thought of nothing but sins and been afraid, but now I see I have wasted my time, I’ve let it slip by like a ninny!  Ah, I have been a fool, a fool!” She sighed.  “A woman’s time is short and every day is precious.  You are handsome, Annushka, and very rich; but as soon as thirty-five or forty strikes for you your time is up.  Don’t listen to any one, my girl; live, have your fling till you are forty, and then you will have time to pray forgiveness—­there will be plenty of time to bow down and to sew your shroud.  A candle to God and a poker to the devil!  You can do both at once!  Well, how is it to be?  Will you make some little man happy?”

“I will,” laughed Anna Akimovna.  “I don’t care now; I would marry a working man.”

“Well, that would do all right!  Oh, what a fine fellow you would choose then!” Stinging Beetle screwed up her eyes and shook her head.  “O—­o—­oh!”

“I tell her myself,” said Auntie, “it’s no good waiting for a gentleman, so she had better marry, not a gentleman, but some one humbler; anyway we should have a man in the house to look after things.  And there are lots of good men.  She might have some one out of the factory.  They are all sober, steady men. . . .”

“I should think so,” Stinging Beetle agreed.  “They are capital fellows.  If you like, Aunt, I will make a match for her with Vassily Lebedinsky?”

“Oh, Vasya’s legs are so long,” said Auntie seriously.  “He is so lanky.  He has no looks.”

There was laughter in the crowd by the door.