After they had heard the narrative, Bukatski, transparent as Sevres porcelain, said with that phlegm special to him,—
“It is war, then? That is a young lady who acts on the nerves, and now would be the time to strike for her. A woman will accept more readily the arm offered on a stony path than on a smooth road.”
“Then offer an arm to her,” said Pan Stanislav, with a certain impatience.
“See thou, my beloved, there are three hindrances. First, Pani Emilia acts on my nerves still more; second, I have a pain in my neck every morning, and in the back of my head, which indicates brain disease; third, I am naked.”
“Thou naked?”
“At least now. I have bought a number of Falks, all avant la lettre. I have plucked myself for a month, and if I receive from Italy a certain Massaccio, for which I have been bargaining, I shall ruin myself for a year.”
Vaskovski, who from his features, or rather from the freckles on his face, was somewhat like Mashko, though much older, and with a face full of sweetness, fixed his blue eyes on Bukatski, and said,—
“And that too is a disease of the age,—collecting and collecting on all sides!”
“Oh, ho! there will be a dispute,” remarked Mashko.
“We have nothing better to do,” said Pan Stanislav.