“And bird of prey, sir; what did that mean?”
“I said you were a bird of prey for a joke.”
“Yes; but—bird of prey—tell me what you mean, Alexey Ivanovitch, for goodness sake!”
“Come, come, that's quite enough!” shouted Velchaninoff, suddenly flaring up and speaking at the top of his voice. “It's time you went; get out of this, will you?”
“No, sir, it's not enough!” cried Pavel Pavlovitch, jumping up, too. “Even if you are sick of me, sir, it's not enough; for you must first drink and clink glasses with me. I won't go before you do! No, no; oh dear no! drink first; it's not enough yet.”
“Pavel Pavlovitch, will you go to the devil or will you not?”
“With pleasure, sir. I'll go to the devil with pleasure; but first we must drink. You say you don't wish to drink with me; but I wish you to drink with me—actually with me.”
Pavel Pavlovitch was grimacing and giggling no longer. He seemed to be suddenly transfigured again, and was as different from the Pavel Pavlovitch of but a few moments since as he could possibly be, both in appearance and in the tone of his voice; so much so that Velchaninoff was absolutely confounded.
“Come, Alexey Ivanovitch, let's drink!—don't refuse me!” continued Pavel Pavlovitch, seizing the other tightly by the hand and gazing into his face with an extraordinary expression.
It was clear there was more in this matter than the mere question of drinking a glass of wine.