The author rose noisily from his seat, tall and strong. He pressed his hands together, cracking his fingers disagreeably.
"What do you think of doing now?" he asked, as he turned to the window without looking at Klimkov.
Yevsey also rose, and repeated with assurance what he had told Maklakov.
"As soon as the new life is arranged, I'll quietly go into some business—I'll go to another city—I've saved about one hundred and fifty rubles."
The author turned to him slowly.
"So?" he said. "You have no other desire whatsoever?"
Klimkov thought, and answered:
"No."
"And you believe in the new life? You think it will arrange itself?"
"Of course. How else? If all the people want it. Why won't it arrange itself?"