“You have counted wrong,” said Mark. “There are only eighty here.”
“I have no more money on me. My aunt keeps my money, and I will send you the balance to-morrow.”
“Don’t forget. This is enough for the moment and now I want to sleep.”
“My bed is at your disposal, and I will sleep on the divan. You are my guest.”
“I should be worse than a Tatar if I did that,” murmured Mark, already half asleep. “Lie down on your bed. Anything will do for me.”
In a few minutes he was sleeping the sleep of a tired, satisfied and drunken man worn out with cold and weariness. Raisky went to the window, raised the curtain, and looked out into the dark, starlit night. Now and then a flame hovered over the unemptied bowl, flared up and lighted up the room for a moment. There was a gentle tap on the door.
“Who is there?” he asked.
“I, Borushka. Open quickly. What are you doing there,” said the anxious voice of Tatiana Markovna.
Raisky opened the door, and saw his aunt before him, like a white-clad ghost.
“What is going on here. I saw a light through the window, and thought you were asleep. What is burning in the bowl.”