"What business is it of yours?" he rejoined, looking into Klimkov's face.
Yevsey was staggered. The old man's question was like a blow on the chest. It stood before him in all the power of its inexplicable simplicity.
"Aha!" said the old man quietly. Then he drew his brows together, whipped a black book from his pocket, and tapping it with his finger said, "The New Testament. Have you read it?"
"Yes."
"Did you understand it?"
"No," answered Yevsey timidly.
"Read it again. Well, anyway—" Moving his mustache the old man hid the book in his pocket. "I've been reading this book for three years, yes, three years. Nobody understands it. It's a book for children, for the pure of heart. No one can understand it."
He grumbled kindly, and Yevsey felt a desire to ask more questions. They did not formulate themselves, however. The old man lighted a cigarette, the smoke enveloped him, and he apparently forgot about his interlocutor. Klimkov glided off quietly. His attraction for the Smokestack had grown stronger, and he thought:
"It would be good for me to sit nearer to him."
Henceforth this became his dream, which, however, came into direct conflict with the dream of Yakov Zarubin.