“That’s true,” assented Pan Vrublevsky.
“Lite? What do you mean by ‘lite’?” asked Grushenka.
“Late, pani! ‘a late hour’ I mean,” the Pole on the sofa explained.
“It’s always late with them. They can never do anything!” Grushenka almost shrieked in her anger. “They’re dull themselves, so they want others to be dull. Before you came, Mitya, they were just as silent and kept turning up their noses at me.”
“My goddess!” cried the Pole on the sofa, “I see you’re not well‐disposed to me, that’s why I’m gloomy. I’m ready, panie,” added he, addressing Mitya.
“Begin, panie,” Mitya assented, pulling his notes out of his pocket, and laying two hundred‐rouble notes on the table. “I want to lose a lot to you. Take your cards. Make the bank.”
“We’ll have cards from the landlord, panie,” said the little Pole, gravely and emphatically.
“That’s much the best way,” chimed in Pan Vrublevsky.
“From the landlord? Very good, I understand, let’s get them from him. Cards!” Mitya shouted to the landlord.
The landlord brought in a new, unopened pack, and informed Mitya that the girls were getting ready, and that the Jews with the cymbals would most likely be here soon; but the cart with the provisions had not yet arrived. Mitya jumped up from the table and ran into the next room to give orders, but only three girls had arrived, and Marya was not there yet. And he did not know himself what orders to give and why he had run out. He only told them to take out of the box the presents for the girls, the sweets, the toffee and the fondants. “And vodka for Andrey, vodka for Andrey!” he cried in haste. “I was rude to Andrey!”