“What now?” asked Oblomov indifferently. Zakhar said nothing, but eyed him with a sidelong glance.
“Well?” said Oblomov again.
“Have you yet found for yourself another flat?” Zakhar countered.
“No, not yet. Why should you want to know?”
“Because I suppose the wedding will be taking place soon after Christmas.”
“The wedding? What wedding?” Oblomov suddenly leaped up.
“You know what wedding—your own,” replied Zakhar with assurance, as though he were speaking of an event long since arranged for. “You are going to be married, are you not?”
“I to be married? To whom?” And Oblomov glared at the valet.
“To Mademoiselle Ilyinski——” Almost before the man could finish his words Oblomov had darted forward.
“Who put that idea into your head?” he cried in a carefully suppressed voice.