Sipiagin took Nejdanov’s hand. “By the way,” he said, lowering his voice and bending his head a little to one side, “if you are in need of money, please do not stand on ceremony. I can let you have a month’s pay in advance.”
Nejdanov was at a loss to know what to say. He gazed, with the same puzzled expression, at the kind, bright face, which was so strange yet so close to him, smiling encouragingly.
“You are not in need of any?” Sipiagin asked in a whisper.
“I will tell you tomorrow, if I may,” Nejdanov said at last.
“Well, goodbye, then. Till tomorrow.” Sipiagin dropped Nejdanov’s hand and turned to go out.
“I should like to know,” Nejdanov asked suddenly, “who told you my name? You said you heard it at the theatre.”
“Someone who is very well known to you. A relative of yours, I think. Prince G.”
“The aide-de-camp?”
“Yes.”
Nejdanov flushed even redder than before, but did not say anything. Sipiagin shook his hand again, without a word this time, then bowing first to him and then to Paklin, put on his hat at the door, and went out with a self-satisfied smile on his lips, denoting the deep impression the visit must have produced upon him.