“Perhaps,” remarked Raisky indifferently.
“I, for instance,” said Mark, “should make direct for my goal, and should be sure of victory. You may do the same, but you would do so penetrated by the conviction that you stood on the heights and had drawn her up to you, you idealist. Show that you understand your calling, and you may succeed. It’s no use to wear yourself out with sighs, to be sleepless, to watch for the raising of the lilac curtain by a white hand, to wait a week for a kindly glance.”
Raisky rose, furious.
“Ah, I have hit the bull’s eye.”
Raisky put compulsion on himself to restrain his rage, for every involuntary expression or gesture of anger would have meant nothing less than acquiescence.
“I should very well like to fall in love, but I cannot,” he yawned, counterfeiting indifference. “It is unsuited to my years and doesn’t cure my boredom.”
“Try it,” teased Mark. “Let us have a wager that in a week you will be as enamoured as a young cat. And within two months, or perhaps one, you will have perpetrated so many follies that you will not know how to get away from here.”
“If I am, with what will you pay?” asked Raisky in a tone bordering on contempt.
“I will give you my trousers or my gun. I possess only two pairs of trousers. The tailor has recovered a third pair for debt. Wait, I will try on your coat. Why, it fits as if I were poured into a mould. Try mine.”
“Why?”