"Well,I'll tell you everything afterwards. Of course, it is my own fault, but it quite went out of my head that I didn't mean to say anything till I had written four pages, but I thought of you and of them. I really can't write, brother, I keep thinking about you. . . ."
Vasya smiled.
A silence followed.
"Phew! What a horrid pen," cried Shumkov, flinging it on the table in vexation. He took another.
"Vasya! listen! one word . . ."
"Well, make haste, and for the last time."
"Have you a great deal left to do?"
"Ah, brother!" Vasya frowned, as though there could be nothing more terrible and murderous in the whole world than such a question. "A lot, a fearful lot."
"Do you know, I have an idea."
"What?"
"Oh, never mind, never mind; go on writing."
"Why, what? What!"
"It's past six, Vasya."
Here Nefedevitch smiled and winked slyly at Vasya, though with a certain timidity, not knowing how Vasya would take it.
"Well, what is it?" said Vasya, throwing down his pen, looking him straight in the face and actually turning pale with excitement.
"Do you know what?"
"For goodness sake, what is it?"
"I tell you what, you are excited, you won't get much done. . . . Stop, stop, stop! I have it, I have it listen," said Nefedevitch, jumping up from the bed in delight, preventing Vasya from speaking and doing his utmost to ward off all objections; "first of all you must get calm, you must pull yourself together, mustn't you?"
"Arkasha, Arkasha!" cried Vasya, jumping up from his chair, "I will work all night, I will, really."
"Of course, of course, you won't go to bed till morning."
"I
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