“It is now Tuesday. That means the week is not up yet.”
“What do you mean it isn’t up?” said Ostrov. “I came to see you on Tuesday. Do you count eight days in a week, in the French fashion? You won’t come off so easily.”
“You came here on Wednesday,” replied Trirodov. “And this is why I haven’t the money ready for you.”
Ostrov was unable to grasp the situation. He looked at Trirodov with some perplexity, and showed his irritation.
“What do you mean by saying that you haven’t it ready? Why should you get it ready? All you’ve got to do is to take it out of your safe, count it out, and give it to me—that’s the whole method of procedure. It isn’t as if it were a lot of money—it’s a mere trifle.”
“It may be a trifle for some people. It isn’t at all a trifle for me,” said Trirodov.
“Don’t pretend that you’re poor! Some one might think you were a forsaken orphan! What do you expect us to believe?”
Trirodov rose from his seat, looked with stern intentness into Ostrov’s eyes, and said resolutely:
“In a word, I can’t give you the money to-day. Try to come here to-morrow about this time.”
Ostrov rose involuntarily from his chair. He experienced a strange sensation, as if he were being lifted from his seat by his collar and forcibly led to the door. He fired his parting shot: