“What are you laughing at?” the latter inquired, very carefully peeling his orange with his short white nails.
“What at?” repeated Sanin. “Why, at our journey together.”
“What about it?” Polozov inquired again, dropping into his mouth one of the longitudinal sections into which an orange parts.
“It’s so very strange. Yesterday I must confess I thought no more of you than of the Emperor of China, and to-day I’m driving with you to sell my estate to your wife, of whom, too, I have not the slightest idea.”
“Anything may happen,” responded Polozov. “When you’ve lived a bit longer, you won’t be surprised at anything. For instance, can you fancy me riding as an orderly officer? But I did, and the Grand Duke Mihail Pavlovitch gave the order, “Trot! let him trot, that fat cornet! Trot now! Look sharp!”
Sanin scratched behind his ear.
“Tell me, please, Ippolit Sidorovitch, what is your wife like? What is her character? It’s very necessary for me to know that, you see.”
“It was very well for him to shout, ‘Trot!’” Polozov went on with sudden vehemence, “But me! how about me? I thought to myself, ‘You can take your honours and epaulettes—and leave me in peace!’ But … you asked about my wife? What my wife is? A person like any one else. Don’t wear your heart upon your sleeve with her—she doesn’t like that. The great thing is to talk a lot to her … something for her to laugh at. Tell her about your love, or something … but make it more amusing, you know.”
“How more amusing?”
“Oh, you told me, you know, that you were in love, wanting to get married. Well, then, describe that.”