“Oh! no!”
“Why not?”
“I don’t like him. He is such a worm.”
Sanine shrugged his shoulders.
“Not worse than others. Come along.”
“All right,” said Ivanoff, who always agreed to anything that Sanine proposed. So they both went along the street together.
Soloveitchik, however, was not at home. The door was shut, and the courtyard dreary and deserted. Only Sultan rattled his chain and barked at these strangers who had invaded his yard. “What a ghastly place!” exclaimed Ivanoff. “Let us go to the boulevard.”
They turned back, shutting the gate after them. Sultan barked two or three times and then sat in front of his kennel, sadly gazing at the desolate yard, the silent mill and the little white footpaths across the dusty turf.
In the public garden the band was playing, as usual, and there was a pleasant breeze on the boulevard, where promenaders abounded. Lit up by bright feminine toilettes, the dark throng moved now in the direction of the shady gardens, and now towards the main entrance of massive stone.
On entering the garden arm-in-arm, Sanine and Ivanoff instantly encountered Soloveitchik who was walking pensively along, his hands behind his back, and his eyes on the ground.