“Well,” muttered Velchaninoff, “but that's nothing but dregs!”
“No, there's just a couple of glasses left—it's quite clear. Now then, clink glasses and drink. There, I'll take your glass and you take mine.” They touched glasses and drank.
“Oh, Alexey Ivanovitch! now that we've drunk together—oh!” Pavel Pavlovitch suddenly raised his hand to his forehead and sat still for a few moments.
Velchaninoff trembled with excitement. He thought Pavel Pavlovitch was about to disclose all; but Pavel Pavlovitch said nothing whatever. He only looked at him, and quietly smiled his detestable cunning smile in the other's face.
“What do you want with me, you drunken wretch?” cried Velchaninoff, furious, and stamping his foot upon the floor; “you are making a fool of me!”
“Don't shout so—don't shout! Why make such a noise?” cried Pavel Pavlovitch. “I'm not making a fool of you! Do you know what you are to me now?” and he suddenly seized Velchaninoff's hand, and kissed it before Velchaninoff could recollect himself.
“There, that's what you are to me now; and now I'll go to the devil.”
“Wait a bit—stop!” cried Velchaninoff, recollecting himself; “there's something I wished to say to you.”
Pavel Pavlovitch turned back from the door.
“You see,” began Velchaninoff, blushing and keeping his eye well away from the other, “you ought to go with me to the Pogoryeltseffs to-morrow—just to thank them, you know, and make their acquaintance.”