“I don’t need cards!” she exclaimed. “I know all your characters without that, and as the character, so is the fate. This one,” she said, pointing to Solomin, “is a cool, steady sort of man. That one,” she said, pointing threateningly at Markelov, “is a fiery, disastrous man.” (Pufka put her tongue out at him.) “And as for you,” she looked at Paklin, “there is no need to tell you—you know quite well that you’re nothing but a giddy goose! And that one—”
She pointed to Nejdanov, but hesitated.
“Well?” he asked; “do please tell me what sort of a man I am.”
“What sort of a man are you,” Fimishka repeated slowly. “You are pitiable—that is all!”
“Pitiable! But why?”
“Just so. I pity you—that is all I can say.”
“But why do you pity me?”
“Because my eyes tell me so. Do you think I am a fool? I am cleverer than you, in spite of your red hair. I pity you—that is all!”
There was a brief silence—they all looked at one another, but did not utter a word.
“Well, goodbye, dear friends,” Paklin exclaimed. “We must have bored you to death with our long visit. It is time for these gentlemen to be going, and I am going with them. Goodbye, thanks for your kindness.”