Everyone felt ill at ease. The vodka was exhausted and the question was whether to get more and continue, or to end now. Ivan Ivanovich looked at me in timid sorrow, but I had not the slightest desire to continue this feast. Avtonomov suddenly understood this.
“Really,—it’s time to be going,” he said, walking towards the window.
“But it’s raining outdoors,” said the soldier’s wife, glancing to one side.
“No. The clouds are all right; ... they look dry.... Get ready, Ivan Ivanovich.”
We began to get ready. Ivan Ivanovich went out first. When I followed him into the dark, closed yard, he took my hand and said in a low tone:
“There’s that long-legged fellow waiting by the gate.”
In very truth I made out Andrey Ivanovich by the entrance. Avtonomov, with his wallet and staff, came out on the porch, holding the soldier’s wife by the hand. Both figures could be seen in the lighted doorway. The soldier’s wife did not withdraw her hand.
“Are you going to leave us?” she said in despair. “We thought—you’d carouse around here.”
“Wait, I’ll be back,—I’ll get rich.”
She looked at him and shook her head.