“You seem to have settled yourself here,” said Velchaninoff, who could hardly speak for agony. “Do as you like, I must lie down.”
“Come, you wouldn't turn a dog out to-night!” replied Pavel, glad of a grievance.
“Of course, sit down; drink your wine—do anything you like,” murmured Velchaninoff, as he laid himself flat on his divan, and groaned with pain.
“Am I to spend the night? Aren't you afraid?”
“What of?” asked Velchaninoff, raising his head slightly.
“Oh, nothing. Only last time you seemed to be a little alarmed, that's all.”
“You are a fool!” said the other angrily, as he turned his face to the wall.
“Very well, sir; all right,” said Pavel.
Velchaninoff fell asleep within a minute or so of lying down. The unnatural strain of the day, and his sickly state of health together, had suddenly undermined his strength, and he was as weak as a child. But physical pain would have its own, and soon conquered weakness and sleep; in an hour he was wide awake again, and rose from the divan in anguish. Pavel Pavlovitch was asleep on the other sofa. He was dressed, and in his boots; his hat lay on the floor, and his eye-glass hung by its cord almost to the ground. Velchaninoff did not wake his guest. The room was full of tobacco smoke, and the bottle was empty; he looked savagely at the sleeping drunkard.
Having twisted himself painfully off his bed, Velchaninoff began to walk about, groaning and thinking of his agony; he could lie no longer.