But he had said enough. After a pause, Petrovitch spoke in a cold, constrained voice, “So that is your trouble, Prince Ivan? You have lost money at play. How much?”
“Eight thousand seven hundred and fifty roubles,” said Ivan in the low tones of penitence and shame.
“Silver or paper?”
“Paper,” said Ivan, rather more cheerfully. There was an enormous difference in value between the two, although in neither case would the sum have been a large one in the eyes of extravagant Russian nobles.
“Do me the favour to call Feodor; you will find him in the next room.”
Ivan obeyed; and Petrovitch, taking a key which hung round his neck, gave it with a few directions to his grandson.
Something in the old merchant’s manner made Ivan stand before him in silence, without venturing a word of explanation or of defence, until Feodor’s return.
The boy gave his grandfather a roll of bank-notes, clean and crisp, and immediately left the room.
In perfect silence the old man handed the notes to Ivan, who tried to express his thanks; but Petrovitch stopped him. “The money,” he said coldly, “is a matter of indifference to me. You are more than welcome to it, Prince Ivan.” Never until to-day had he addressed him in such a tone.
Ivan drew near, knelt down before his chair, and took his hand affectionately. “Dear old friend,” he said, “I see that I have wounded you. Forgive me, for my grandfather’s sake,—and for my own, for I love you truly.”