He struck a match on his coat-sleeve, hardly listening to what was said.
“We were just talking, sir; that’s all.... You see, the poor fellow’s lost his immortal soul.”
“What soul?”
The cigarette lighted suddenly, and scattered little sparks all round.
“What soul? What nonsense are you talking?”
“Why! your honour! his soul!”
“The man was simply a drunkard! It’s all nonsense!”
“But what about the next world?”
“What’s the use of talking rubbish? Don’t get drunk, and you won’t be run over.... The deuce knows what they’ll say next—a soul!”
His young wife and his boiling new samovar occupied his thoughts so completely that they made his whole conversation merry, and gave it a tone of “all fiddle-sticks!” Having uttered his few remarks in a cheerful manner, he walked away, also in a cheerful manner, along the platform, and flung back at the group of silhouettes one last word—