Dólokhov’s clear, cold glance met Rostóv as soon as he entered the door, as though he had long expected him.
“It’s a long time since we met,” he said. “Thanks for coming. I’ll just finish dealing, and then Ilyúshka will come with his chorus.”
“I called once or twice at your house,” said Rostóv, reddening.
Dólokhov made no reply.
“You may punt,” he said.
Rostóv recalled at that moment a strange conversation he had once had with Dólokhov. “None but fools trust to luck in play,” Dólokhov had then said.
“Or are you afraid to play with me?” Dólokhov now asked as if guessing Rostóv’s thought.
Beneath his smile Rostóv saw in him the mood he had shown at the club dinner and at other times, when as if tired of everyday life he had felt a need to escape from it by some strange, and usually cruel, action.
Rostóv felt ill at ease. He tried, but failed, to find some joke with which to reply to Dólokhov’s words. But before he had thought of anything, Dólokhov, looking straight in his face, said slowly and deliberately so that everyone could hear:
“Do you remember we had a talk about cards... ‘He’s a fool who trusts to luck, one should make certain,’ and I want to try.”