appeared with a much-bescribbled, greasy account-book and a bundle of papers.
"If you are going to write anything," he said, "perhaps you would like to check these accounts at the same time? Some money is due to be paid out."
"What accounts? What money?" inquired Oblomov petulantly.
"The accounts sent in by the butcher, the greengrocer, the laundress, and the baker. All are wanting their money."
"Always money and worry!" grumbled Oblomov. "Why do you not give me the accounts at intervals instead of in a batch like this?"
"Because each time you have sent me away, and then put matters off until the morrow."
"Well, these accounts can wait until the morrow."
"No, they cannot, for the creditors are pressing, and say they are going to allow you nothing more on credit. To-day is the first of the month, you must remember."
"Ah! Fresh cares, fresh worries!" cried Oblomov gloomily. "Why are you standing there? Lay the table, and I will rise, wash, and look into the whole business. Is the water yet ready?"
