occupation, the thought came into my head that eating is an immoral business. Everything occurred opportunely. Apparently no one noticed that the plate flying in fragments from the blow of my fist was covered with a napkin, so that I should not cut my hands.
The whole trick was astoundingly clumsy, even stupid, but I counted on that. They could not have comprehended a more subtle prank. I began by swinging my arms and talked "excitingly" with Pavel Petrovich, until that individual opened wide his eyes in amazement; I followed this by falling into "concentrated thought," which called forth the question from the solicitous Irene Pavlovna:
"What is the matter with you, Anton Ignatyevich? Why are you so sad?"
When they all turned their faces upon me I smiled tragically.
"Are you ill?"
"Yes. Just a trifle. My head feels dizzy. But do not concern yourself, please. It will pass away shortly."
