“Poor fellow, he'll catch it for this,” thought Velchaninoff. “If you will tell me your husband's name,” he added aloud, “I will find him, with pleasure.”
“Pavel Pavlovitch,” hiccupped the young officer.
“Your husband's name is Pavel Pavlovitch, is it?” inquired Velchaninoff with curiosity, and at the same moment a familiar bald head was interposed between the lady and himself.
“Here you are at last,” cried the wife, hysterically.
It was indeed Pavel Pavlovitch.
He gazed in amazement and dread at Velchaninoff, falling back before him just as though he saw a ghost. So great was his consternation, that for some time it was clear that he did not understand a single word of what his wife was telling him—which was that Velchaninoff had acted as her guardian angel, and that he (Pavel) ought to be ashamed of himself for never being at hand when he was wanted.
At last Pavel Pavlovitch shuddered, and woke up to consciousness.
Velchaninoff suddenly burst out laughing. “Why, we are old friends”—he cried, “friends from childhood!” He clapped his hand familiarly and encouragingly on Pavel's shoulder. Pavel smiled wanly. “Hasn't he ever spoken to you of Velchaninoff?”
“No, never,” said the wife, a little confused.
“Then introduce me to your wife, you faithless friend!”