[XI.]
Two days later Ilya met Pashka Gratschev. It was evening, little flakes of snow danced in the air and glimmered in the light of the lamps. In spite of the cold, Pavel wore nothing thicker than a cotton shirt, without a belt. He walked slowly, his head on his breast, his hands in his pockets, and his back bent as though he were looking for something. When Ilya stopped him and spoke to him, Pashka raised his head, looked into Ilya's face, and said indifferently:
"Oh, it's you!"
"How goes it?" asked Ilya, falling into step.
"It's just possible things might be worse. And you?"
"Oh, rubbing along."
"Not very grandly, it seems."
They walked along together silently, their elbows touching.
"Why didn't you come to see us?" asked Ilya. "I'm always inviting you."