Paklin took a cigar gratefully and lighted it with care.
“Here’s a good opportunity,” he thought, but Sipiagin had anticipated him.
“I remember your saying ...” he began carelessly, stopping to look at his cigar and pulling his hat lower over his forehead, “you spoke ... of ... of that friend of yours, who married my ... niece. Do you ever see them? They’ve settled not far from here, eh?”
(“Take care! be on your guard, Sila!” Paklin thought.)
“I have only seen them once, your excellency. They are living ... certainly ... not very far from here.”
“You quite understand, I hope,” Sipiagin continued in the same tone, “that I can take no further serious interest—as I explained to you—either in that frivolous girl or in your friend. Heaven knows that I have no prejudices, but really, you will agree with me, this is too much! So foolish, you know. However, I suppose they were more drawn together by politics ...” (“politics!” he repeated, shrugging his shoulders) “than by any other feeling!”
“I think so too, your excellency!”
“Yes, Mr. Nejdanov was certainly revolutionary. To do him justice he made no secret of his opinions.”
“Nejdanov,” Paklin ventured, “may have been carried away, but his heart—”
“Is good,” Sipiagin put in; “I know, like Markelov’s. They all have good hearts. He has no doubt also been mixed up in this affair ... and will be implicated.... I suppose I shall have to intercede for him too!”