"There are no candles," was Nikíta's reply.
"How!—no candles?"
"There were none yesterday," said Nikíta.
Tchartkóff remembered that there had been none the night before, and that his credit with the tallow-chandler was not such as to render it probable a supply had been sent in that morning. So he held his tongue, allowed Nikíta to take off his coat, waistcoat, and cravat, and wrapped himself up as warmly as he could in a dressing gown with tattered elbows.
"I forgot to tell you," said Nikíta, "the landlord has been here."
"For money, I suppose," said the artist, shrugging his shoulders.
"He had somebody with him. A Kvartàlnü, I think.[28] He said something about the rent not being paid."
"Well, what can they do?"
"Don't know," replied the imperturbable Nikíta. "He said you must leave the lodgings or pay. Will come again to-morrow."
"Let them come," said Tchartkóff gloomily. And he turned himself upon the comfortless sofa with a feeling akin to desperation.