Mosgliakoff listened absently to all this senile gabble, and bit his nails with impatience. He was anxious to turn the conversation on to the subject of marriage. He did not know quite clearly why he wished to do so, but his heart was boiling over with anger.
Suddenly the old man made an exclamation of surprise.
“Why, my dear boy, I declare I've forgotten to tell you about it. Fancy, I made an offer of marriage to-day!”
“An offer of marriage, uncle?” cried Paul, brightening up.
“Why, ye—yes! an offer. Pachomief, are you going? All right! Away with you! Ye—yes, c'est une charmante personne. But I confess, I took the step rather rash—ly. I only begin to see that now. Dear me! dear, dear me!”
“Excuse me, uncle; but when did you make this offer?”
“Well, I admit I don't know exactly when I made it! Perhaps I dre—dreamed it; I don't know. Dear me, how very strange it all seems!”
Mosgliakoff trembled with joy: his new idea blazed forth in full developed glory.
“And whom did you propose to?” he asked impatiently.
“The daughter of the house, my boy; that beau—tiful girl. I—I forget what they call her. Bu—but, my dear boy, you see I—I can't possibly marry. What am I to do?”