“My husband must be very grateful to you,” she remarked at last. “It was so good of you to sacrifice a few hours of your valuable time—”
“My time is not so very valuable, madame,” he observed. “Besides, I’ve not come here for long.”
“Voilà où l’ours a montré sa patte,” she thought in French, but at this moment her husband appeared in the doorway, his hat on his head and a walking stick in his hand.
“Are you ready, Vassily Fedosaitch?” he asked in a free and easy tone, half turned towards him.
Solomin rose, bowed to Valentina Mihailovna, and walked out behind Sipiagin.
“This way, this way, Vassily Fedosaitch!” Sipiagin called out, just as if they were groping their way through a tangled forest and Solomin needed a guide. “This way! Do be careful, there are some steps here, Vassily Fedosaitch!”
“If you want to call me by my father’s Christian name,” Solomin said slowly, “then it isn’t Fedosaitch, but Fedotitch.”
Sipiagin was taken aback and looked at him over his shoulder.
“I’m so sorry, Vassily Fedotitch.”
“Please don’t mention it.”