"No, I don't drink," answered Yevsey, embarrassed.
"That's good."
The spy looked carefully into Klimkov's face, smoothed his mustache, closed his eyes for a minute, and stretched his whole body, so that his bones cracked. When he had drunk the cognac, he remarked in an undertone:
"It's good you are such a taciturn fellow. What do you think about, eh?"
Yevsey dropped his head, and did not answer at once.
"About everything, about myself."
"But what in particular?"
Maklakov's eyes gleamed softly.
"I think perhaps it would be better for me to enter a monastery," Yevsey answered sincerely.
"Why?"