“Well, my dear fellow,”—suddenly rang out Ipátoff’s voice behind Vladímir Sergyéitch’s back;—“you’re only looking on, but not dancing yourself? Come, confess that, in spite of the fact that we live in a dead-calm region, so to speak, we aren’t badly off, are we, hey?”
“Good! damn the dead-calm region!” thought Vladímir Sergyéitch, and mumbling something in reply to Ipátoff, he went off to another corner of the hall.
“I must hunt up a second,”—he pursued his meditations;—“but where the devil am I to find one? I can’t take Véretyeff; I know no others; the devil only knows what a stupid affair this is!”
Vladímir Sergyéitch, when he got angry, was fond of mentioning the devil.
At this moment, Vladímir Sergyéitch’s eyes fell upon The Folding Soul, Iván Ílitch, standing idly by the window.
“Wouldn’t he do?”—he thought, and shrugging his shoulders, he added almost aloud:—“I shall have to take him.”
Vladímir Sergyéitch stepped up to him.
“A very strange thing has just happened to me,”—began our hero with a forced smile:—“just imagine some young man or other, a stranger to me, has challenged me to a duel; it is utterly impossible for me to refuse; I am in indispensable need of a second: will not you act?”
Although Iván Ílitch was characterised, as we know, by imperturbable indifference, yet such an unexpected proposition startled even him. Thoroughly perplexed, he riveted his eyes on Vladímir Sergyéitch.
“Yes,”—repeated Vladímir Sergyéitch;—“I should be greatly indebted to you. I am not acquainted with any one here. You alone....”