“I’d like to, but I haven’t any spare cash, not a copeck. I had to borrow some yesterday myself.”
“Well, if you haven’t it, you can’t help it,” mumbled Igumnov, and continued to smile. “I’ll simply have to get along without it.”
His smile irritated Kurkov, perhaps because it was such a pitiful, helpless affair.
“Why does he smile?” thought Kurkov in vexation. “Doesn’t he believe me? Well, I don’t care if he doesn’t—I don’t own the Government exchequer.”
“Why don’t you come in sometimes and see us?” he asked Igumnov in a careless, dry manner, as he looked elsewhere.
“I am always meaning to. Of course I’ll come in,” answered Igumnov in a trembling voice. “What about to-day?”
There rose before him a picture of the cosy dining-room of the Kurkovs, the hospitable hostess, the samovar on the table and the various tasty tit-bits.
“To-day?” asked Kurkov in the same careless, dry voice. “No, we shan’t be home to-day. But do step in some day before long. Well, I must turn up this lane. Good-bye!”
And he made haste to cross the wooden walk of the embankment. Igumnov looked after him, and smiled. Slow, incoherent thoughts crept through his brain.
As Kurkov disappeared up the lane Igumnov again approached the granite parapet, and, trembling in cold terror, began slowly and awkwardly to climb over it.