Ivan was greatly surprised at this address. Which of those who were present last night, he asked himself, could possibly have told the story of his folly, and how could it have found its way so quickly to the ears of Petrovitch?
"I do not think you can know what I feel," he began humbly; "I am so utterly ashamed of myself. You have so often warned me to be moderate in play, and as often have I made the best of resolutions, and I meant to keep them faithfully, but—"
He came to a sudden stop, astonished, even terrified by the change that swept over the sightless but expressive face of Petrovitch. Disappointment, sorrow, anger chased each other rapidly, like clouds before a stormy wind; then all these passed away and were succeeded by something too sadly like contempt. Ivan stood in silent embarrassment, unable to proceed with his story.
But he had said enough. After a pause, Petrovitch spoke in a cold, constrained voice, "So that is your trouble, Prince Ivan? You have lost money at play. How much?"
"Eight thousand seven hundred and fifty roubles," said Ivan in the low tones of penitence and shame.
"Silver or paper?"
"Paper," said Ivan, rather more cheerfully. There was an enormous difference in value between the two, although in neither case would the sum have been a large one in the eyes of extravagant Russian nobles.
"Do me the favour to call Feodor; you will find him in the next room."
Ivan obeyed; and Petrovitch, taking a key which hung round his neck, gave it with a few directions to his grandson.
Something in the old merchant's manner made Ivan stand before him in silence, without venturing a word of explanation or of defence, until Feodor's return.
