Pavel Pavlovitch waited a moment or two before he replied.
“Why it's that Stepan Michailovitch Bagantoff of ours—up to his tricks again; he's a shining light among the highest circles of society—he is!”
“Wouldn't he receive you again—or what?”
“N—no! not quite that, this time; on the contrary I was allowed to go in for the first time on record, and I had the honour of musing over his features, too!—but he happened to be a corpse, that's all!”
“What! Bagantoff dead?” cried Velchaninoff, in the greatest astonishment; though there was no particular reason why he should be surprised.
“Yes—my unalterable—six-years-standing friend is dead!—died yesterday at about mid-day, and I knew nothing of it! Perhaps he died just when I called there—who knows? To-morrow is the funeral! he's in his coffin at this moment! Died of nervous fever; and they let me in to see him—they did indeed!—to contemplate his features! I told them I was a great friend—and therefore they allowed me in! A pretty trick he has played me—this dear friend of six years' standing! why—perhaps I came to St. Petersburg specially for him!”
“Well—it's hardly worth your while to be angry with him about it, is it—he didn't die on purpose!” said Velchaninoff laughing.
“Oh, but I'm speaking out of pure sympathy—he was a dear friend to me! oh a very dear friend!”
Pavel Pavlovitch gave a smile of detestable irony and cunning.
“Do you know what, Alexey Ivanovitch,” he resumed, “I think you ought to treat me to something,—I have often treated you; I used to be your host every blessed day, sir, at T——, for a whole year! Send for a bottle of wine, do—my throat is so dry!”