“But you have no evidence for such an accusation, uncle,” he said. “That’s a mere theory of yours.”
“I knew you would stick up for your generation. Ha, ha, ha! Quite commendable in a young chap, too. Ha, ha, ha!”
“But where is your evidence?”
“You want to know too much, Pasha. Too young for that. If they wanted the riots stopped, it would be a case of one, two, three, and there she goes! That’s as much as I can tell you, and if you are really clever you can understand the rest yourself.”
“He is in league with his fellow fleecers, the Jewish usurers,” Pavel remarked inwardly. “He simply cannot afford an anti-Jewish demonstration, the old bribe-taker.”
“Neither can you,” a voice retorted from Pavel’s heart, “though for quite different reasons.”
Prince Boulatoff called on Orlovsky, the government clerk in whose house the local revolutionists held their meetings. The first thing that struck him was Orlovsky’s loss of girth.
“Hello, Aliosha,” he said heartily, meeting him at the gate.
“Why, Pasha!” The clerk flung himself upon him, and they exchanged three prolonged kisses.