Just as they were sitting down to table, the postman brought several letters, and some registered ones among them; the Landlord signed the receipt for these, but did not open the letters, saying in a loud voice as he seated himself at dinner, what indeed he frequently had said before: "I never read my letters before dinner, for whether agreeable or disagreeable, they are equally bad for digestion. Railway scrip shall never disturb me."
There was, however, a malicious scoffer at another table, who was not taken in by this superior wisdom, and who thought—"A steam-engine is driving round and round you for all that, in spite of your indifference;" and this scoffer was, of course, Petrowitsch.
After dinner, Pilgrim passed the table repeatedly at which Petrowitsch was seated, and several times stood opposite to it: four eyes stared at him with amazement. Büble, who was perched on his master's knee, fixed his eyes on him suspiciously and growled, for he had a perception that some service was to be claimed from his master, and Petrowitsch glanced up repeatedly from his newspaper: "What does the man want—has he a wood, too, that he wishes to sell?"
Pilgrim ran his fingers restlessly through his long thin hair, but this did not help him any nearer to Petrowitsch, who at this moment rose, paid his score, and went away. Pilgrim hurried after him into the street, saying, "Herr Lenz! pray allow me a couple of words."
"Good day,—that is exactly a couple of words."
"Herr Lenz! I want nothing for myself; but I consider it my duty to——"
"Your duty is nothing to me."
"But it does concern you, Herr Lenz. Just imagine that another person is telling you what I am about to say; it is right you should know it."
"I am not at all curious."
"Briefly,—it concerns your nephew, Lenz."