beg for your hand! Yes, or no? Will you?—Good! (He gets up and goes quickly to the door)
Mrs. Popov. Wait a moment!
Smirnov. (Stopping) Well?
Mrs. Popov. Nothing. You may go. But—wait a moment. No, go on, go on. I hate you. Or—no: don't go. Oh, if you knew how angry I was, how angry! (She throws the revolver on to the chair) My finger is swollen from this thing. (She angrily tears her handkerchief) What are you standing there for? Get out!
Smirnov. Farewell!
Mrs. Popov. Yes, go. (Cries out) Why are you going? Wait—no, go!! Oh, how angry I am! Don't come too near, don't come too near—er—come—no nearer.
Smirnov. (Approaching her) How angry I am with myself! Fall in love like a school-boy, throw myself on my knees. I've got a chill! (Strongly) I love you. This is fine—all I needed was to fall in love. To-morrow I have to pay my interest, the hay harvest has begun, and then you appear! (He takes her in his arms) I can never forgive myself.
Mrs. Popov. Go away! Take your hands off me! I hate you—you—this is—(A long kiss)
(Enter Luka with an ax, the gardener with a rake, the coachman with a pitch-fork, and workmen with poles.)
Luka. (Staring at the pair) Merciful Heavens! (A long pause)
Mrs. Popov. (Dropping her eyes) . Tell them in the stable that Tobby isn't to have any oats.
Curtain.
