KABANOV. There, you see how I always catch it from mamma on your account! A nice sort of life I lead!

KATERINA. Is it my fault?

KABANOV. I don't know whose fault it is.

VARVARA. Is it likely you would know?

KABANOV. She used to keep on at me, "You must get a wife, you must get a wife, I'm longing to see you a married man." And now she worries my life out, and gives me no peace—all on your account.

VARVARA. Well, it's not her fault! Mother attacks her, and you too. And then you say you love your wife. It makes me sick to look at you. (Turns away.)

KABANOV. Talk away! What am I to do?

VARVARA. Mind your own business—hold your tongue, if you can't do anything better. Why do you stand there shilly-shallying? I can see by your face what's in your mind.

KABANOV. Why, what?

VARVARA. What?—Why, that you want to go in and have a drink with Saviol Prokofitch. Eh? isn't that it?

KABANOV. You've hit it, old girl.

KATERINA. Come back quickly, Tihon dear, or mamma will be scolding again.

VARVARA. Yes, indeed, you must look sharp, or you'll know what to expect.

KABANOV. I should think I do!

VARVARA. We've no great desire to get into a row for your sake either.

KABANOV. I'll fly. Wait for me!

[Goes.