Misha was silent, but it was evident that the thought of selling his native soil was distasteful to him. He seemed on the point of bursting into tears.
“In my opinion,” observed Rameyev, “the land needn’t be sold. I shouldn’t advise it. I wouldn’t think of selling Misha’s share until he came of age—and I shouldn’t advise you to sell yours either, Piotr.”
Misha, gladdened, glanced gratefully at Rameyev, who continued:
“I can direct you to another plot of land which happens to be on sale. I hope it will suit your needs.”
Trirodov thanked him.
His educational institution now became the topic of conversation.
“Your school, of course, brings you into contact with the Headmaster of the National Schools. How do you manage to get along with him?” asked Rameyev.
Trirodov smiled contemptuously.
“Not at all,” he said.
“A clumsy person, this fellow with his feminine voice,” went on Rameyev. “He’s an ambitious, cold-blooded man. He’s likely to do you an injury.”