Yevsey rose.
"Timofey Vasilyevich," he began in a trembling voice.
"Well, what is it?"
"Tell me—"
"Tell you what?"
"I don't know."
"Well, I don't either."
Klimkov mumbled:
"I am sorry for my cousin—and there's a girl there, too. They are all better than we, by God they are! Really and truly they're better."
Maklakov also rose to his feet, stretched himself, and stepping to the door remarked coldly: