“I have brought you a list of books for the school, Pavel Mihailovitch, . . .”  Father Yakov began.

“Thank you.”

But everything showed that Father Yakov had come for something else besides the list.  Has whole figure was expressive of extreme embarrassment, and at the same time there was a look of determination upon his face, as on the face of a man suddenly inspired by an idea.  He struggled to say something important, absolutely necessary, and strove to overcome his timidity.

“Why is he dumb?” Kunin thought wrathfully.  “He’s settled himself comfortably!  I haven’t time to be bothered with him.”

To smoothe over the awkwardness of his silence and to conceal the struggle going on within him, the priest began to smile constrainedly, and this slow smile, wrung out on his red perspiring face, and out of keeping with the fixed look in his grey-blue eyes, made Kunin turn away.  He felt moved to repulsion.

“Excuse me, Father, I have to go out,” he said.

Father Yakov started like a man asleep who has been struck a blow, and, still smiling, began in his confusion wrapping round him the skirts of his cassock.  In spite of his repulsion for the man, Kunin felt suddenly sorry for him, and he wanted to soften his cruelty.

“Please come another time, Father,” he said, “and before we part I want to ask you a favour.  I was somehow inspired to write two sermons the other day. . . .  I will give them to you to look at.  If they are suitable, use them.”

“Very good,” said Father Yakov, laying his open hand on Kunin’s sermons which were lying on the table.  “I will take them.”

After standing a little, hesitating and still wrapping his cassock round him, he suddenly gave up the effort to smile and lifted his head resolutely.

“Pavel Mihailovitch,” he said, evidently trying to speak loudly and distinctly.

“What can I do for you?”

“I have heard that you . . . er . . . have dismissed your secretary, and . . . and are looking for a new one. . . .”

“Yes, I am. . . .  Why, have you someone to recommend?”

“I. . . er . . . you see . . .  I . . .  Could you not give the post to me?”

“Why, are you giving up the Church?” said Kunin in amazement.

“No, no,” Father Yakov brought out quickly, for some reason turning pale and trembling all over.  “God forbid!  If you feel doubtful, then never mind, never mind.  You see, I could do the work between whiles, . . so as to increase my income. . . .  Never mind, don’t disturb yourself!”

“H’m! . . . your income. . . .  But you know, I only pay my secretary twenty roubles a month.”

“Good heavens!  I would take ten,” whispered Father Yakov, looking about him.  “Ten would be enough!  You . . . you are astonished, and everyone is astonished.  The greedy priest, the grasping priest, what does he do with his money?  I feel myself I am greedy, . . . and I blame myself, I condemn myself. . . .  I am ashamed to look people in the face. . . .  I tell you on my conscience, Pavel Mihailovitch. . . .  I call the God of truth to witness. . . .”