“I should like to go as promptly as possible,”—he said with a preoccupied look on his face.—“To-morrow, I think ... if I am alive. For I have business on hand. But why have you suddenly taken it into your head to ask me about that?”
“Because I have!”—retorted Nadézhda Alexyéevna.
“But what is the reason?”
“Because I have!”—she repeated.—“I am surprised at the curiosity of a man who is going away to-morrow, and to-day wants to find out about my character....”
“But, pardon me ...” began Vladímir Sergyéitch....
“Ah, here, by the way ... read this,”—Nadézhda Alexyéevna interrupted him with a laugh, as she handed him a motto-slip of paper from bonbons which she had just taken from a small table that stood near by, as she rose to meet Márya Pávlovna, who had stopped in front of her with another lady.
Márya Pávlovna was dancing with Piótr Alexyéitch. Her face was covered with a flush, and was flaming, but not cheerful.
Vladímir Sergyéitch glanced at the slip of paper; thereon, in wretched French letters, was printed:
“Qui me néglige me perd.”
He raised his eyes, and encountered Steltchínsky’s gaze bent upon him. Vladímir Sergyéitch smiled constrainedly, threw his elbow over the back of the chair, and crossed his legs—as much as to say: “I don’t care for thee!”