The old man sat down, touched the strings with his fat fingers, and began singing:
“Neetka, neetka, Margareetka. . . .”
After drinking champagne Frolov was drunk. He thumped with his fist on the table and said:
“Yes, there’s something that sticks in my head! It won’t give me a minute’s peace!”
“Why, what is it?”
“I can’t tell you. It’s a secret. It’s something so private that I could only speak of it in my prayers. But if you like . . . as a sign of friendship, between ourselves . . . only mind, to no one, no, no, no, . . . I’ll tell you, it will ease my heart, but for God’s sake . . . listen and forget it. . . .”
Frolov bent down to Almer and for a minute breathed in his ear.
“I hate my wife!” he brought out.
The lawyer looked at him with surprise.
“Yes, yes, my wife, Marya Mihalovna,” Frolov muttered, flushing red. “I hate her and that’s all about it.”