"That is not right," said Lunev, who felt clearly that he pitied Vyera even more than his friend. "What way do you speak of? You had no way. All that's just talk. You have longed for the mead, and praised it, that it was strong; now it has made you drunk, you blame it for getting into your head. And how about her? Isn't she ill too?"
"Yes," said Pavel, then suddenly continued, his voice trembling with emotion, "Do you think I'm not sorry for her?"
"Of course. How can you help it?"
"I'm hard on her. Is it much wonder? I sent her away; and when she went and began to cry, so softly and bitterly, then my heart was wrung. I felt I should weep too, but I had no tears in my soul, only stones. And then I began to think it all over. Ah, Ilya! The life I live's no life at all."
"Yes," said Lunev slowly, with a strange smile. "Things go very oddly in life. There's something takes us all by the throat and strangles—strangles us. There's Jakov, who's good. His father makes his life a burden; they've married Mashutka to an old devil; you're here in hospital——"
Suddenly he smiled quietly, and said in a lower voice:
"I'm the only lucky one! Fact! As soon as I wish for anything—pat, it comes!"
"How?" asked Pavel, with curiosity and suspicion.
"Trust me. I have luck. It draws me on and on."
"I don't like the way you talk," said Pavel, and looked at Ilya searchingly. "Are you laughing at yourself?"