'Why, what was the first misfortune?'
'What? why, we've wasted our day for nothing—don't you reckon that as anything?'
'Yes . . . of course.. . . That awful Golushkin! We oughtn't to have drunk so much wine. My head aches now . . . fearfully.'
'I wasn't speaking of Golushkin; he at any rate gave us some money, so that was at least something gained by our visit!'
'Surely you don't regret Paklin's having taken us to his . . . what was it he called them—poll-parrots?'
'There's nothing to regret in it . . . and there 's nothing to rejoice at either. I 'm not one of those who take interest in such trifles . . . I was not referring to that misfortune.'
'What, then?'
Markelov make no reply, he simply turned a little in his corner, as though he were wrapping himself up. Nezhdanov could not quite make out his face; only his moustaches stood out in a black transverse line; but ever since the morning he had been conscious of something in Markelov it was better not to touch upon—some obscure, secret irritation.
'Tell me, Sergei Mihalovitch,' he began after a long pause, 'are you in earnest in admiring Mr. Kislyakov's letters, that you gave me to read this morning? You know—
2
