Kirillov did not speak. Liputin meanwhile sat down on one side under the portrait of the bishop. That last desperate idea gained more and more possession of him. Kirillov scarcely noticed him. Liputin had heard of Kirillov’s theory before and always laughed at him; but now he was silent and looked gloomily round him.
“I’ve no objection to some tea,” said Pyotr Stepanovitch, moving up. “I’ve just had some steak and was reckoning on getting tea with you.”
“Drink it. You can have some if you like.”
“You used to offer it to me,” observed Pyotr Stepanovitch sourly.
“That’s no matter. Let Liputin have some too.”
“No, I … can’t.”
“Don’t want to or can’t?” said Pyotr Stepanovitch, turning quickly to him.
“I am not going to here,” Liputin said expressively.
Pyotr Stepanovitch frowned.
“There’s a flavour of mysticism about that; goodness knows what to make of you people!”