“What sort of book?”
“It’s about women, by Tolstoi,” replied the lanky officer, raising his voice as if he were making a report. On his long sallow face there was a look of evident pride at being able to read and discuss Tolstoi.
“Do you read Tolstoi?” asked Ivanoff, who had noticed this naively complacent expression.
“Von Deitz is mad about Tolstoi,” exclaimed Malinowsky, with a loud guffaw.
Sarudine took the slender red-covered pamphlet, and, turning over a few pages, said,
“Is it interesting?”
“You’ll see for yourself,” replied Von Deitz with enthusiasm. “There’s a brain for you, my word! It’s just as if one had known it all one’s self!”
“But why should Victor Sergejevitsch read Tolstoi when he has his own special views concerning women?” asked Novikoff, in a low tone, not taking his eyes off his glass.
“What makes you think that?” rejoined Sarudine warily, scenting an attack.
Novikoff was silent. With all that was in him, he longed to hit Sarudine full in the face, that pretty self-satisfied-looking face, to fling him to the ground, and kick him, in a blind fury of passion. But the words that he wanted would not come; he knew, and it tortured him the more to know, that he was saying the wrong thing, as with a sneer, he replied.