Polozov went on munching.
“H’m…. But how can I have a talk with her, Ippolit Sidorovitch?”
“It’s very simple, Dimitri Pavlovitch. Go to Wiesbaden. It’s not far from here. Waiter, haven’t you any English mustard? No? Brutes! Only don’t lose any time. We’re starting the day after to-morrow. Let me pour you out a glass of wine; it’s wine with a bouquet—no vinegary stuff.”
Polozov’s face was flushed and animated; it was never animated but when he was eating—or drinking.
“Really, I don’t know, how that could be managed,” Sanin muttered.
“But what makes you in such a hurry about it all of a sudden?”
“There is a reason for being in a hurry, brother.”
“And do you need a lot of money?”
“Yes, a lot. I … how can I tell you? I propose … getting married.”
Polozov set the glass he had been lifting to his lips on the table.