“But what was the first misfortune?”
“A day wasted for nothing. Is that of no importance?”
“Yes ... certainly ... and then this Golushkin! We shouldn’t have drank so much wine. My head is simply splitting.”
“I wasn’t thinking of Golushkin. We got some money from him at any rate, so our visit wasn’t altogether wasted.”
“But surely you’re not really sorry that Paklin took us to his ... what did he call them ... poll-parrots?”
“As for that, there’s nothing to be either sorry or glad about. I’m not interested in such people. That wasn’t the misfortune I was referring to.”
“What was it then?”
Markelov made no reply, but withdrew himself a little further into his corner, as if he were muffling himself up. Nejdanov could not see his face very clearly, only his moustache stood out in a straight black line, but he had felt ever since the morning that there was something in Markelov that was best left alone, some mysteriously unknown worry.
“I say, Sergai Mihailovitch,” Nejdanov began, “do you really attach any importance to Mr. Kisliakov’s letters that you gave me today? They are utter nonsense, if you’ll excuse my saying so.”
Markelov drew himself up.