Vladímir Sergyéitch was still more amazed than before.
“What was that you said?”—he muttered.
“Yes; that has all been adjusted,”—went on Véretyeff;—“that gentleman from the banks of the Visla ... Steltchínsky ... makes his apologies to you ... to-morrow you will receive a letter.... I repeat to you:—all is settled.... Snore away.”
So saying, Véretyeff rose, and directed his course, with unsteady steps, toward the door.
“But permit me, permit me,”—began Vladímir Sergyéitch.—“How could you have found out, and how can I believe....”
“Akh! you think that I ... you know ...” (and he reeled forward slightly).... “I tell you ... he will send a letter to you to-morrow.... You do not arouse any particular sympathy in me, but magnanimity is my weak side. But what’s the use of talking.... It’s all nonsense anyway.... But confess,”—he added, with a wink;—“you were pretty well scared, weren’t you, hey?”
Vladímir Sergyéitch flew into a rage.
“Permit me, in conclusion, my dear sir,”—said he....
“Well, good, good,”—Véretyeff interrupted him with a good-natured smile.—“Don’t fly into a passion. Evidently you are not aware that no ball ever takes place without that sort of thing. That’s the established rule. It never amounts to anything. Who feels like exposing his brow? Well, and why not bluster, hey? at newcomers, for instance? In vino veritas. However, neither you nor I know Latin. But I see by your face that you are sleepy. I wish you good night, Mr. Positive Man, well-intentioned mortal. Accept this wish from another mortal who isn’t worth a brass farthing himself. Addio, mio caro!”
And Véretyeff left the room.