It was impossible for Romashov to return home.
Never had the thought of his uncomfortable abode seemed so repulsive to him as at the present moment. In these gloomy hours of spiritual depression, abandonment, and weariness of life, he needed a trusty, intelligent, and sympathetic friend—a man with brains and heart.
XXI
NASANSKI was, as always, at home. He had only just awakened from a heavy sleep following intoxication, and was lying on his back with only his underclothing on and his hands under his head. In his troubled eyes might be read sickness of life and physical weariness. His face had not yet lost its sleepy and lifeless expression when Romashov, stooping over his friend, said in a troubled and uncertain voice—
“Good-day, Vasili Nilich. Perhaps I have come at an inconvenient time?”
“Good-day,” replied Nasanski, in a hoarse and weak voice. “Any news? Sit down.”
He offered Romashov his hot, clammy hand, but looked at him, not as at a dear and ever-welcome friend, but as it were a troublous dream-picture that still lingered after his drunken sleep.
“Aren’t you well?” asked Romashov shyly, as he threw himself down on the corner of the bed. “In that case I’ll go at once, I won’t disturb you.”
Nasanski lifted his head a couple of inches from the pillow, and by an effort he peered, with deeply puckered forehead, at Romashov.