But Velchaninoff still held out, and the more obstinately because he was conscious of a certain worrying feeling which he had had ever since Pavel Pavlovitch began to talk about his bride. Whether this feeling was simple curiosity, or something quite inexplicable, he knew not. Whatever it was it urged him to agree, and go. And the more the instinct urged him, the more he resisted it.
He sat and thought for a long time, his head resting on his hand, while Pavel Pavlovitch buzzed about him and continued to repeat his arguments.
“Very well,” he said at last, “very well, I'll go.” He was agitated almost to trembling pitch. Pavel was radiant.
“Then, Alexey Ivanovitch, change your clothes—dress up, will you? Dress up in your own style—you know so well how to do it.”
Pavel Pavlovitch danced about Velchaninoff as he dressed. His state of mind was exuberantly blissful.
“What in the world does the fellow mean by it all?” thought Velchaninoff.
“I'm going to ask you one more favour yet, Alexey Ivanovitch,” cried the other. “You've consented to come; you must be my guide, sir, too.”
“For instance, how?”
“Well, for instance, here's an important question—the crape. Which ought I to do—tear it off, or leave it on?”
“Just as you like.”