“I thought you wouldn't come, sir—I did indeed; in fact, when I thought over yesterday's visit, I despaired of ever seeing you again: I did indeed, sir!”
Velchaninoff glanced round the room meanwhile. The place was very untidy; the bed was unmade; the clothes thrown about the floor; on the table were two coffee tumblers with the dregs of coffee still in them, and a bottle of champagne half finished, and with a tumbler standing alongside it. He glanced at the next room, but all was quiet there; the little girl had hidden herself, and was as still as a mouse.
“You don't mean to say you drink that stuff at this time of day?” he asked, indicating the champagne bottle.
“It's only a remnant,” explained Pavel Pavlovitch, a little confused.
“My word! You are a changed man!”
“Bad habits, sir; and all of a sudden. All dating from that time, sir. Give you my word, I couldn't resist it. But I'm all right now—I'm not drunk—I shan't talk twaddle as I did last night; don't be afraid sir, it's all right! From that very day, sir; give you my word it is! And if anyone had told me half a year ago that I should become like this,—if they had shown me my face in a glass then as I should be now, I should have given them the lie, sir; I should indeed!”
“Hem! Then you were drunk last night?”
“Yes—I was!” admitted Pavel Pavlovitch, a little guiltily—“not exactly drunk, a little beyond drunk!—I tell you this by way of explanation, because I'm always worse after being drunk! If I'm only a little drunk, still the violence and unreasonableness of intoxication come out afterwards, and stay out too; and then I feel my grief the more keenly. I daresay my grief is responsible for my drinking. I am capable of making an awful fool of myself and offending people when I'm drunk. I daresay I seemed strange enough to you last night?”
“Don't you remember what you said and did?”
“Assuredly I do—I remember everything!”