"Especially for papa."
"He has as many debts, no doubt, as curly hairs on his head."
"He borrows, of course, on the security of papa's pocket."
"Or his death."
Others said:
"In such hands ill-gotten gains will go to the devil quickly."
"Why ill-gotten gains?"
"Well, can you imagine Saint Francis of Assisi making millions?"
While his carriage was rolling along the streets of the city, Darvid's head was full of conflicting ideas. True, true; that green youth had a special capacity for devouring the golden sands of Pactolus! But in what a charming and princely fashion he did that! Darvid was proud of his son, and at the same time greatly dismayed and troubled; for this could not last. That lad was making debts in view of—his father's death. And this absolute idleness! What good was a man who did nothing? The results also of idleness were evident in him: a certain premature withering, a certain dreaming without object—a handsome fellow! He looked as if born to a princely coronet. As Darvid was ascending the marble steps of his mansion he said to the Swiss:
"When Pan Maryan comes home say that I request him to come to me."