“Wait till I get well,” he said.
“Wait nothing. Your excellency will be rolling along like a water-melon all the same. Good-bye, Monsieur le Water-melon!”
Presently Pavel stood before his mother, mopping his flushed, laughing face.
“Do you remember his ‘express trains’ in the garden?” he said. “Now it is beneath his dignity, to be sure.” He was always trying to prove to himself that the present Kostia and the five-year-old boy he used to fondle five years ago were one and the same person.
“He’s right,” said the countess. “He’s a baby no longer. It’s you who are acting like one. Uncle has been here. He was in a hurry, so I didn’t send for you.” Her serious-minded, intellectual son inspired her with a certain feeling of timidity. She had not the courage to bring up the subject of the political arrest. Her mind was so vague on matters of this kind, while Pavel was apparently so well informed and so profound, she was sure of making a poor showing. So she told herself that it was not a proper topic to discuss in a well-ordered family and kept her own counsel.
“I didn’t know he was here,” he said.
“Poor man! he seems to be feeling lonely.”
Pavel made no reply.
“Why, don’t you think he does?”
“What matters it whether I do or not,” he said, lightly.