In inviting Trirodov, Doctor Svetilovitch asked him to read something from his own work at the gathering, something that would not make Sonya unpleasantly reminiscent. Trirodov agreed to this quite heartily, although he usually avoided reading his own work anywhere.
As Trirodov was preparing to leave his house that evening and was putting on a coloured tie, Kirsha said to him with his usual gravity:
“I should not go to the Svetilovitches’ to-night if I were you. It would be much wiser to remain at home.”
Trirodov, not all astonished by this unexpected advice, smiled and asked:
“Why shouldn’t I go?”
Kirsha held his father’s hand and said sadly:
“There have been many detectives of late poking their noses about here. What can they want here? It’s almost certain they will make a search of Svetilovitch’s house to-night—I have a presentiment.”
“That’s nothing,” said Trirodov with a smile, “we have got used to everything. But, dear Kirsha, you are very inquisitive—you look in everywhere, even where you shouldn’t.”
“My eyes see, and my ears hear,” replied Kirsha, “is that my fault?”
In the pleasant, well-appointed drawing-room of the Svetilovitches, in the lifeless light of three electric globes with lustrous bronze fittings, the green-blue upholsterings of the Empire furniture seemed illusively beautiful. The dark curves of the grand piano were gleaming. Albums were lying on a little table under the leaves of a palm. The portrait of an old man with a long, white moustache smiled down youthfully and cheerfully from its place on the wall above the sofa. The visitors gathered in the midst of these attractive surroundings, as if there were nothing to mar them. They spoke a great deal, with much heat and eloquence.