I lived luxuriously, I dressed gorgeously, and traveled from one place to another—yet I had nothing of my own except an income of four thousand rubles a year, which were scarcely paid to me before they were swallowed up in the gulf of my debts. I asked Prilukoff for money, and he gave it to me.
But there came a day when, on my asking him for five thousand rubles, he turned upon me abruptly.
“I have not got them,” he said. “At least,” he added, “not unless I steal them.”
“How dreadful,” I exclaimed in terror. “How can you say such a thing?” Then I laughed, feeling sure that he had spoken in jest.
“Get them from Kamarowsky,” said Prilukoff, curtly.
I started with indignation. From Kamarowsky! Never, never, as long as I lived. I had seen him frequently during the last few days; he and his charming little son, Grania, still in their deep mourning and with pale, sad faces, used to come and see me, and talk to me with many tears about their dear one who was gone. It would have been horrible, it would have been indecorous, to ask Kamarowsky for money.
“I did not say you were to ask him for it,” retorted Prilukoff.
“What then?”
“Telephone and invite him to dine with you to-morrow.”
“Well? And then?”