“Yes, I … I wrote to you in Paris.”
“Enough, please talk of something else. Are you a Slavophil in your convictions?”
“I … I am not exactly.… Since I cannot be a Russian, I became a Slavophil.” He smiled a wry smile with the effort of one who feels he has made a strained and inappropriate jest.
“Why, aren’t you a Russian?”
“No, I’m not.”
“Well, that’s all foolishness. Do sit down, I entreat you. Why are you all over the place? Do you think I am lightheaded? Perhaps I shall be. You say there are only you two in the house.”
“Yes.… Downstairs …”
“And both such clever people. What is there downstairs? You said downstairs?”
“No, nothing.”
“Why nothing? I want to know.”