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The door stood open, and the passage outside was full of people--boys, girls, women with babies--thronged together to look at the strange gentleman who wanted to see the peasants' food. The old woman seemed to pride herself on the way she behaved with a gentleman. "Yes, it's a miserable life, ours; that goes without saying, sir," said the old man. "What are you doing there?" he shouted to those in the passage. "Well, good-bye," said Nekhludoff, feeling ashamed and uneasy, though unable to account for the feeling. "Thank you kindly for having looked us up," said the old man. The people in the passage pressed closer together to let Nekhludoff pass, and he went out and continued his way up the street. Two barefooted boys followed him out of the passage the elder in a shirt that had once been white, the other in a worn and faded pink one. Nekhludoff looked back at them. "And where are you going now?" asked the boy with the white shirt. Nekhludoff answered: "To Matrona Kharina. Do you know her?" The boy with the pink shirt began laughing at something; but the elder asked, seriously: "What Matrona is that? Is she old?" "Yes, she is old." "Oh--oh," he drawled; "that one; she's at the other end of the village; we'll show you. Yes, Fedka, we'll go with him. Shall we?" "Yes, but the horses?" "They'll be all right, I dare say." Fedka agreed, and all three went up the street.