'Why won't you play?' said Nozdryov.
'Oh, because I don't feel inclined. And, indeed, I must own that I am not particularly fond of cards at any time.'
'Why aren't you?'
Tchitchikov shrugged his shoulders and added: 'Because I am not.'
'You are a paltry fellow!'
'What's to be done? I am as God made me.'
'You are a regular muff! I did think at first that you were more or less of a gentleman, but you don't know how to behave at all. One can't speak to you as one would to a friend. … There is no straightforwardness, no sincerity. You are a regular Sobakevitch, just such a scoundrel!'
'What are you swearing at me for? Am I to blame for not playing? Sell me the souls alone, since you are so made that you worry about such trifles.'
'Devil a one of them you shall have! I was meaning to let you have them for nothing, but now you shan't have them! I wouldn't give them for the riches of the world. You are a pickpocket, a nasty sweep. I won't have anything to do with you from this time forth. Porfiry, go and tell the stable-boy not to give his horses any oats; don't let them have anything but hay.'
Tchitchikov had not in the least expected this conclusion.
'I wish I had never set eyes on you,' said Nozdryov.
In spite of this little misunderstanding, how-
