Velchaninoff's spirits were rising higher and higher; he was beginning to feel wonderfully light-hearted. That feeling of agitation which had lately so disturbed him had given place to quite a different sentiment. He now began to stride up and down the room, very quickly.
“I was going to say,” resumed Pavel Pavlovitch, “that though I have met you several times, and though I quite intended to come and look you up, when I was arranging my visit to Petersburg, still, I was in that condition of mind, you know, and my wits have so suffered since last March, that——”
“Wits since last March,—yes, go on: wait a minute—do you smoke?”
“Oh—you know, Natalia Vasilievna, never—”
“Quite so; but since March—eh?”
“Well—I might, a cigarette or so.”
“Here you are, then! Light up and go on,—go on! you interest me wonderfully.”
Velchaninoff lit a cigar and sat down on his bed again. Pavel Pavlovitch paused a moment.
“But what a state of agitation you seem to be in yourself!” said he, “are you quite well?”
“Oh, curse my health!” cried Velchaninoff,—“you go on!”