MÁSHA. It's a tiresome novel, but there's one very, very good thing in it. That what's his name?—Rakhmánov—goes and pretends he has drowned himself. And you—can you swim?
FÉDYA. No.
MÁSHA. That's all right. Let me have your clothes—everything, and your pocket-book too.
FÉDYA. How can I?
MÁSHA. Wait a bit, wait, wait! Let's go home; then you'll change your clothes.
FÉDYA. But it will be a fraud.
MÁSHA. All right! You go to bathe, your clothes remain on the bank, in the pocket is your pocket-book and this letter.
FÉDYA. Yes, and then?
MÁSHA. And then? Why, then we'll go off together and live gloriously.
Enter Iván Petróvich.