hour for the last twenty years—was disclosed; and since Mr. Bagantoff had a decided taste for literature (indeed, he had published a passionate novel once, I am told, in a newspaper!)—consequently there were about a hundred examples of his genius in the desk, ranging over a period of five years. Some of these talented effusions were covered with pencilled remarks by Natalia Vasilievna herself! Pleasant, that, for a fond husband’s feelings, sir, eh?” Velchaninoff quickly cast his thoughts back over the past, and remembered that he had never written a single letter or a single note to Natalia Vasilievna. He had written a couple of letters from St. Petersburg, but, according to a previous arrangement, he had addressed them to both Mr. and Mrs. Trusotsky together. He had not answered Natalia Vasilievna’s last letter—which had contained his dismissal—at all. Having ended his speech, Pavel Pavlovitch relapsed into silence, and sat smiling repulsively for a whole minute or so. “Why don’t you answer my question, my friend?” he asked, at length, evidently disturbed by Velchaninoff’s silence. “What question?” “As to the pleasure I must have felt as a fond husband, upon opening the desk.” “Your feelings are no business of mine!” said the other bitterly, rising and commencing to stride up and down the room. “I wouldn’t mind betting that you are thinking at this very moment: ‘What a pig of a fellow he is to parade his shame like this!’ Ha-ha! dear me, what a squeamish gentleman you are to be sure!” “Not at all. I was thinking nothing of the sort; on the contrary, I consider that you are—besides being more or less intoxicated—so put out by the death of the man who has injured you that you are not yourself. There’s nothing surprising in it at all! I quite understand why you wish Bagantoff were still alive, and am ready to respect your annoyance, but——” “And pray _why_ do you suppose that I wish Bagantoff were alive?” “Oh, that’s your affair!” “I’ll take my oath you are thinking of a duel!” “Devil take it, sir!” cried Velchaninoff, obliged to hold himself tighter than ever. “I was thinking that you, like every respectable person in similar circumstances, would act openly and candidly and straightforwardly, and not humiliate yourself with comical antics and silly grimaces, and ridiculous complaints and detestable innuendoes, which only heap greater shame upon you. I say I was thinking you would act like a respectable person.” “Ha-ha-ha!—but perhaps I am _not_ a respectable person!” “Oh, well, that’s your own affair again and yet, if so, what in the devil’s name could you want with Bagantoff alive?” “Oh, my dear sir, I should have liked just to have a nice peep at a dear old friend, that’s all. We should have got hold of a bottle of wine, and drunk it together!” “He wouldn’t have drunk with _you_!” “Why not? _Noblesse oblige?_ Why, _you_ are drinking with me. Wherein is he better than you?” “I have not drunk with you.”