The footman stood stock-still in confusion, and turned white.
'Didn't I ask you a question, my friend?' Arkady Pavlitch resumed tranquilly, never taking his eyes off the man.
The luckless footman fidgeted in his place, twisted the napkin, and uttered not a word.
Arkady Pavlitch dropped his head and looked up at him thoughtfully from under his eyelids.
'Pardon, mon cher', he observed, patting my knee amicably, and again he stared at the footman. 'You can go,' he added, after a short silence, raising his eyebrows, and he rang the bell.
A stout, swarthy, black-haired man, with a low forehead, and eyes positively lost in fat, came into the room.
'About Fyodor … make the necessary arrangements,' said Arkady
Pavlitch in an undertone, and with complete composure.
'Yes, sir,' answered the fat man, and he went out.
'Voilà, mon cher, les désagréments de la campagne,' Arkady Pavlitch remarked gaily. 'But where are you off to? Stop, you must stay a little.'
'No,' I answered; 'it's time I was off.'