But Vladímir Sergyéitch, as soon as Véretyeff left him, contracted his brows in a frown and straightened himself up. Piótr Alexyéitch’s unexpected sally had astounded, even offended him extremely.
“‘We have grown stupid, we drink liquor, we dye our moustaches’ ... parlez pour vous, mon cher,”—he said at last, almost aloud, and emitting a couple of snorts caused by an access of involuntary indignation, he was preparing to continue his stroll.
“Who was that talking with you?”—rang out a loud and self-confident voice behind him.
Vladímir Sergyéitch turned round and beheld one of his best friends, a certain Mr. Pompónsky. This Mr. Pompónsky, a man of lofty stature, and stout, occupied a decidedly important post, and never once, from his very earliest youth, had he doubted himself.
“Why, a sort of eccentric,”—said Vladímir Sergyéitch, linking his arm in Mr. Pompónsky’s.
“Good gracious, Vladímir Sergyéitch, is it permissible for a respectable man to chat on the street with an individual who wears a foraging-cap on his head? ’Tis indecent! I’m amazed! Where could you have made acquaintance with such a person?”
“In the country.”
“In the country.... One does not bow to one’s country neighbours in town.... ce n’est pas comme il faut. A gentleman should always bear himself like a gentleman if he wishes that....”
“Here is my wife,”—Vladímir Sergyéitch hastily interrupted him.—“Let us go to her.”
And the two gentlemen directed their steps to a low-hung, elegant carriage, from whose window there peered forth the pale, weary, and irritatingly-arrogant little face of a woman who was still young, but already faded.