“What are you thinking of—God forbid!” cried Pavel, in a terrible fright.
“Well, go along, then!” said the other, loosing his hold of Pavel's shoulder.
“Then—then—you won't come, will you?” said Pavel once more, timidly and despairingly, and clasping his hands in entreaty.
“No—I won't—I swear!—run away—you'll be late!” He put out his hand mechanically, then recollected himself, and shuddered. Pavel did not take the proffered hand, he withdrew his own.
The third bell rang.
An instantaneous but total change seemed to have come over both. Something snapped within Velchaninoff's heart—so it seemed to him, and he who had been roaring with laughter a moment before, seized Pavel Pavlovitch angrily by the shoulder.
“If I—I offer you my hand, sir” (he showed the scar on the palm of his left hand)—“if I can offer you my hand, sir, I should think you might accept it!” he hissed with white and trembling lips.
Pavel Pavlovitch grew deadly white also, his lips quivered and a convulsion seemed to run through his features:
“And—Liza?” he whispered quickly. Suddenly his whole face worked, and tears started to his eyes.
Velchaninoff stood like a log before him.