CHAPTER XIII.
In spite of Velchaninoff's apparently happy day, the feeling of annoyance and suffering at his heart had hardly actually left him for a single moment. Before he sang the song he had not known what to do with himself, or suppressed anger and melancholy—perhaps that was the reason why he had sung with so much feeling and passion.
“To think that I could so have lowered myself as to forget everything!” he thought—and then despised himself for thinking it; “it is more humiliating still to cry over what is done,” he continued. “Far better to fly into a passion with someone instead.”
“Fool!” he muttered—looking askance at Pavel Pavlovitch, who sat beside him as still as a mouse. Pavel Pavlovitch preserved a most obstinate silence—probably concentrating and ranging his energies. He occasionally took his hat off, impatiently, and wiped the perspiration from his forehead.
Once—and once only—Pavel spoke, to the coachman, he asked whether there was going to be a thunder-storm.
“Wheugh!” said the man, “I should think so! It's been a steamy day—just the day for it!”
By the time town was reached—half-past ten—the whole sky was overcast.
“I am coming to your house,” said Pavel to Velchaninoff, when almost at the door.