"Ha ha!" Karmazinov got up from the sofa, wiping his mouth with a table-napkin, and came forward to kiss him with an air of unmixed delight--after the characteristic fashion of Russians if they are very illustrious. But Pyotr Stepanovitch knew by experience that, though Karmazinov made a show of kissing him, he really only proffered his cheek, and so this time he did the same: the cheeks met. Karmazinov did not show that he noticed it, sat down on the sofa, and affably offered Pyotr Stepanovitch an easy chair facing him, in which the latter stretched himself at once. "You don't... wouldn't like some lunch?" inquired Karmazinov, abandoning his usual habit but with an air, of course, which would prompt a polite refusal. Pyotr Stepanovitch at once expressed a desire for lunch. A shade of offended surprise darkened the face of his host, but only for an instant; he nervously rang for the servant and, in spite of all his breeding, raised his voice scornfully as he gave orders for a second lunch to be served. "What will you have, cutlet or coffee?" he asked once more. "A cutlet and coffee, and tell him to bring some more wine, I am hungry," answered Pyotr Stepanovitch, calmly scrutinising his host's attire. Mr. Karmazinov was wearing a sort of indoor wadded jacket with pearl buttons, but it was too short, which was far from becoming to his rather comfortable stomach and the solid curves of his hips. But tastes differ. Over his knees he had a checkered woollen plaid reaching to the floor, though it was warm in the room. "Are you unwell?" commented Pyotr Stepanovitch. "No, not unwell, but I am afraid of being so in this climate," answered the writer in his squeaky voice, though he uttered each word with a soft cadence and agreeable gentlemanly lisp. "I've been expecting you since yesterday." "Why? I didn't say I'd come." "No, but you have my manuscript. Have you... read it?" "Manuscript? Which one?" Karmazinov was terribly surprised. "But you've brought it with you, haven't you?" He was so disturbed that he even left off eating and looked at Pyotr Stepanovitch with a face of dismay. "Ah, that _Bonjour_ you mean...." _"Merci."_ "Oh, all right. I'd quite forgotten it and hadn't read it; I haven't had time. I really don't know, it's not in my pockets... it must be on my table. Don't be uneasy, it will be found." "No, I'd better send to your rooms at once. It might be lost; besides, it might be stolen." "Oh, who'd want it! But why are you so alarmed? Why, Yulia Mihailovna told me you always have several copies made--one kept at a notary's abroad, another in Petersburg, a third in Moscow, and then you send some to a bank, I believe." "But Moscow might be burnt again and my manuscript with it. No, I'd better send at once."