The old man poured some of the spirit into his mouth, swallowed it, frowned, and began to chew a small piece of bread carefully, but muddled Ardalon said drowsily:
"So I have thrown in my lot with the Tatar woman. She is a pure Tatar, as Ephimushka says, young, an orphan from Kasimov; she was getting ready for the fair."
From the other side of the wall some one said in broken Russian:
"Tatars are the best, like young hens. Send him away; he is not your father."
"That's she," muttered Ardalon, gazing stupidly at the wall.
"I have seen her," said Osip.
Ardalon turned to me:
"That is the sort of man I am, brother."
I expected Osip to reproach Ardalon, to give him a lecture which would make him repent bitterly. But nothing of the kind happened; they sat side by side, shoulder to shoulder, and uttered calm, brief words. It was melancholy to see them in that dark, dirty stable. The woman called ludicrous words through the chink in the wall, but they did not listen to them. Osip took a walnut off the table, cracked it against his boot, and began to remove the shell neatly, as he asked:
"All your money gone?"