"What, what!" Pavel Pavlovitch was terribly alarmed. "God forbid!"
"Pavel Pavlovitch! Pavel Pavlovitch!" voices were heard calling again.
"Well, be off now!" said Velchaninov, letting him go at last, and still laughing genially.
"So you won't come?" Pavel Pavlovitch whispered for the last time, almost in despair, and even put his hands before him with the palms together in his old style.
"Why, I swear I won't come! Run, there'll be trouble, you know."
And with a flourish he held out his hand to him—and was startled at the result: Pavel Pavlovitch did not take his hand, he even drew his own hand back.
The third bell rang.
In one instant something strange happened to both of them: both seemed transformed. omething, as it were, quivered and burst out in Velchaninov, who had been laughing only just before. He clutched Pavel Pavlovitch by the shoulder and held him in a tight and furious grip.
"If I—I hold out this hand to you," showing the palm of his left hand, where a big scar from the cut was still distinct, "you certainly might take it!" he whispered, with pale and trembling lips.
Pavel Pavlovitch, too, turned pale, and his lips trembled too; a convulsive quiver ran over his face.
"And Liza?" he murmured in a rapid whisper, and suddenly his lips, his cheeks and his chin began to twitch and tears gushed from his eyes.
Velchaninov stood before him stupefied.
"Pavel Pavlovitch! Pavel Pavlovitch!" they heard a scream from the train as though some one were being murdered—and suddenly the whistle sounded.
Pavel Pavlovitch roused himself, flung up his hands and ran full speed to the train; the train was already in motion, but he managed to hang on somehow, and went flying to his compartment. Velchaninov remained at the station and only in the evening set off on his original route in another train. He did not turn off to the right to see his fair friend—he felt too much out of humour. And how he regretted it afterwards.
