“And why shouldn’t I be as wicked as my neighbours?” cried Pavel Pavlovitch suddenly! He said this so abruptly that he gave one the idea that he had pounced out of a corner where he had been lurking, on purpose to make a dash at the first opportunity. “Oh dear me! do as you like, pray!” laughed Velchaninoff; “I only thought something had put you out, perhaps!” “So it has,” cried Pavel Pavlovitch, as though proud of the fact. “Well, what was it?” Pavel Pavlovitch waited a moment or two before he replied. “Why it’s that Stepan Michailovitch Bagantoff of ours—up to his tricks again; he’s a shining light among the highest circles of society—he is!” “Wouldn’t he receive you again—or what?” “N—no! not quite that, this time; on the contrary I was allowed to go in for the first time on record, and I had the honour of musing over his features, too!—but he happened to be a corpse, that’s all!” “What! Bagantoff dead?” cried Velchaninoff, in the greatest astonishment; though there was no particular reason why he _should_ be surprised. “Yes—my unalterable—six-years-standing friend is dead!—died yesterday at about mid-day, and I knew nothing of it! Perhaps he died just when I called there—who knows? To-morrow is the funeral! he’s in his coffin at this moment! Died of nervous fever; and they let me in to see him—they did indeed!—to contemplate his features! I told them I was a great friend—and therefore they allowed me in! A pretty trick he has played me—this dear friend of six years’ standing! why—perhaps I came to St. Petersburg _specially for him_!” “Well—it’s hardly worth your while to be angry with him about it, is it—he didn’t die on purpose!” said Velchaninoff laughing. “Oh, but I’m speaking out of pure sympathy—he was a _dear_ friend to me! oh a _very_ dear friend!” Pavel Pavlovitch gave a smile of detestable irony and cunning. “Do you know what, Alexey Ivanovitch,” he resumed, “I think you ought to treat me to something,—I have often treated you; I used to be your host every blessed day, sir, at T——, for a whole year! Send for a bottle of wine, do—my throat is so dry!” “With pleasure—why didn’t you say so before! what would you like?” “Don’t say ‘you!’ say ‘we’! we’ll drink together of course!” said Pavel Pavlovitch defiantly, but at the same time looking into Velchaninoff’s eyes with some concern. “Shall it be champagne?” “Of course! it isn’t time for vodki yet!” Velchaninoff rose slowly—rang the bell and gave Mavra the necessary orders. “We’ll drink to this happy meeting of friends after nine years’ parting!” said Pavel Pavlovitch, with a very inappropriate and unnecessary giggle. “Why, you are the only real, true friend left to me now! Bagantoff is no more! it quite reminds one of the great poet: “Great Patroclus is no more, Mean Thersites liveth yet!” —and so on,—don’t you know!” At the name “Thersites” Pavel Pavlovitch touched his own breast.