“But what is the matter with you? What’s wrong?” cried Pyotr Ilyitch, looking wildly at his guest. “How is it that you’re all covered with blood? Have you had a fall? Look at yourself!”
He took him by the elbow and led him to the glass.
Seeing his blood‐stained face, Mitya started and scowled wrathfully.
“Damnation! That’s the last straw,” he muttered angrily, hurriedly changing the notes from his right hand to the left, and impulsively jerked the handkerchief out of his pocket. But the handkerchief turned out to be soaked with blood, too (it was the handkerchief he had used to wipe Grigory’s face). There was scarcely a white spot on it, and it had not merely begun to dry, but had stiffened into a crumpled ball and could not be pulled apart. Mitya threw it angrily on the floor.
“Oh, damn it!” he said. “Haven’t you a rag of some sort ... to wipe my face?”
“So you’re only stained, not wounded? You’d better wash,” said Pyotr Ilyitch. “Here’s a wash‐stand. I’ll pour you out some water.”
“A wash‐stand? That’s all right ... but where am I to put this?”
With the strangest perplexity he indicated his bundle of hundred‐rouble notes, looking inquiringly at Pyotr Ilyitch as though it were for him to decide what he, Mitya, was to do with his own money.
“In your pocket, or on the table here. They won’t be lost.”
“In my pocket? Yes, in my pocket. All right.... But, I say, that’s all nonsense,” he cried, as though suddenly coming out of his absorption. “Look here, let’s first settle that business of the pistols. Give them back to me. Here’s your money ... because I am in great need of them ... and I haven’t a minute, a minute to spare.”