"It's the wine," flashed through Yevsey's mind. He rose to his feet, shook himself, and said. "Don't think I asked for no reason at all. I asked because I wanted to tell her long ago—your sister—about you."
Zimin also rose. His face gathered in wrinkles, and turned yellow.
"What can you tell her about me?" he asked with calm dignity.
Masha's quiet whisper reached Yevsey's ear. "What's up between them?"
"Wait," said Anfisa.
"I know," said Yevsey. He had the sensation that he was being swung from the floor into the air light as a feather. He seemed to see everything, observe everything with marvellous plainness. "I know you're being followed—followed by the agents of the Department of Safety, I know you're a revolutionist."
The cook shook in her chair, crying out in astonishment and fright:
"Matvey, what does this mean?"
"Excuse me," said Zimin, passing his hand reassuringly before her face. "This is a serious matter." Then he said to Yevsey in a decided stern tone, "Young man, put your overcoat on. You must go home. And I, too, must go. Put your overcoat on."
Yevsey smiled. He still felt empty and light. It was a pleasant sensation, but his eyes were dim, and the caustic tickling taste in his mouth came back again. He scarcely realized how he walked away, but he did not forget that all were silent, and no one said good-by to him.