'It's very delightful to hear that, Mr. Ostrodumov.'
The little cripple turned to Mashurina. She sat scowling, and went on deliberately puffing at her cigarette.
'How are you, dear . . . dear . . . There, how annoying! I always forget your name and your father's.'
Mashurina shrugged her shoulders.
'And there's no need whatever to know them! You know my surname. What more do you want? And what a question: how are you! Can't you see I'm alive all right?'
'True, most true!' cried Paklin, his nostrils dilating and his eyebrows twitching; 'if you weren't alive, your humble servant would not have the pleasure of seeing you here and talking to you! Put my question down to a bad old-fashioned habit. But as for your name and your father's . . . You know it's rather awkward to say baldly, Mashurina! I'm aware, it's true, that you even sign your letters so: Bonaparte! that's to say, Mashurina! But still, in conversation———'
'But who asks you to talk tome?'
Paklin laughed nervously, as though he were choking.
'There, that's enough, my dear creature—shake hands, don't be cross; don't I know
8
