“How could I tell?” Pyotr Stepanovitch answered rather roughly. They looked intently into each other’s eyes.
“At a guess? Approximately?” Karmazinov piped still more sweetly.
“You’ll have time to sell your estate and time to clear out too,” Pyotr Stepanovitch muttered still more roughly. They looked at one another even more intently.
There was a minute of silence.
“It will begin early next May and will be over by October,” Pyotr Stepanovitch said suddenly.
“I thank you sincerely,” Karmazinov pronounced in a voice saturated with feeling, pressing his hands.
“You will have time to get out of the ship, you rat,” Pyotr Stepanovitch was thinking as he went out into the street. “Well, if that ‘imperial intellect’ inquires so confidently of the day and the hour and thanks me so respectfully for the information I have given, we mustn’t doubt of ourselves. [He grinned.] H’m! But he really isn’t stupid … and he is simply a rat escaping; men like that don’t tell tales!”
He ran to Filipov’s house in Bogoyavlensky Street.
VI
Pyotr Stepanovitch went first to Kirillov’s. He found him, as usual, alone, and at the moment practising gymnastics, that is, standing with his legs apart, brandishing his arms above his head in a peculiar way. On the floor lay a ball. The tea stood cold on the table, not cleared since breakfast. Pyotr Stepanovitch stood for a minute on the threshold.