Ostrov made his visit late on Tuesday evening. He was received at once, and led into a chamber on the ground floor. Trirodov came in almost immediately. Not a little astonished, he asked unwillingly:
“Well, what can I do for you, Denis Alekseyevitch?”
“I’ve come for the money,” said Ostrov gruffly. “To receive the promised relief at your bountiful hands.”
“I did not expect you until Wednesday,” replied Trirodov.
“Why Wednesday when Tuesday is just as good?” said Ostrov with a savage smile. “Or do you find it so hard to part with your cash? Have you become a bourgeois, Giorgiy Sergeyevitch?”
Trirodov suddenly appeared to recall something as, with a tinge of derision in his smile, he asked:
“I beg your pardon, Denis Alekseyevitch, I thought you were coming to-morrow, as was arranged. I haven’t the money ready for you.”
Ostrov was annoyed. His broad face grew dark. He exclaimed, his eyes red with anger:
“You asked me to come in a week, and I’ve come in a week. You don’t expect me to come here forty times, do you? I have other business. You’ve promised me the money, and so hand it over. You must loosen your purse-strings whether you like it or not.”
He grew more savage with every word. In the end he struck the small round white table that stood on slender legs in front of him with his stout fist. Trirodov answered calmly: