Smouri struck his knee with his fist; then he scratched his knee as he said:
"Wait; take time."
I pondered. I looked at the steward. He looked at me, and there seemed to be no eyes behind his glasses.
He lived without making a noise. He went about softly, spoke in low tones. Sometimes his faded beard and vacant eyes peeped out from some corner and instantly vanished. Before going to bed he knelt for a long time in the buffet before the icon with the ever-burning lamp. I could see him through the chink of the door, looking like a black bundle; but I had never succeeded in learning how the steward prayed, for he simply knelt and looked at the icon, stroking his beard and sighing.
After a silence Smouri asked:
"Has Sergei ever given you any money?"
"No."
"Never?"
"Never."
"He does not tell lies," said Smouri to the steward, who answered at once in his low voice: