"You have not been long at supper," he remarked, after a pause. The
observation was suggested by the condition of his own appetite.
"Supper?" repeated the Count, rather vaguely. "I believe I had forgotten
all about it. I will go presently."
"The Count is reserving himself for to-morrow," said an ironical voice in
the background. Akulina entered the shop from the workroom, a guttering
candle in a battered candlestick in one hand, and a number of gaily
coloured pasteboard boxes tucked under the other arm. "What is the use of
eating to-day when there will be so many good things to-morrow?"
Neither Fischelowitz nor the Count vouchsafed any answer to this thrust.
For the second time, since the Count had entered, however, the tobacconist
wore an expression approaching to gravity. The Count himself kept his
composure admirably, only glancing coldly at Akulina, and then looking at
his cigarette. Akulina is a broad, fat woman, with a flattened Tartar
face, small eyes, good but short teeth, full lips and a dark complexion.
She reminds one of an over-fed tabby cat, of doubtful temper, and her
voice seems to reach utterance after traversing some thick, soft medium,
which lends it an odd sort of guttural richness. She moves quietly but
heavily and has an Asiatic second sight in the matter of finance. In
matters of thrift and foresight her husband places implicit confidence in
her judgment. In matters of generosity and kindness implying the use of
money, he never consults her.
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