"I'm not saying anything."
Mironov keeping silent turned to the window again, and straightened out his mustache with both hands. Yevsey stood motionless, awaiting something and listening to the emptiness in his breast.
"Tell me," said the writer softly and slowly, "aren't you sorry for those people, that girl, your cousin, and his comrade?"
Klimkov bowed his head, and drew the skirts of his coat together.
"You found out that they were right, didn't you?"
"At first I was sorry for them. I must have been ashamed, I suppose. But now I'm not sorry any more."
"No? Why not?"
Klimkov did not answer at once. At the end of a few moments he said:
"Well, they are good people, and they attained to what they wanted."
"And didn't it occur to you that you were in a bad business?"