The teapot and a half-emptied tumbler of tea stood on the table beside him; his red face beamed with benevolence. He had taken off his coat, and sat in his shirt sleeves. “Forgive me, dearest of friends,” he cried, catching sight of Velchaninoff, and hastening to put on his coat, “I took it off to make myself thoroughly comfortable.” Velchaninoff approached him menacingly. “You are not quite tipsy yet, are you? Can you understand what is said to you?” Paul Pavlovitch became a little confused. “No, not quite. I’ve been thinking of the dear deceased a bit, but I’m not quite drunk yet.” “Can you understand what I say?” “My dear sir, I came here on purpose to understand you.” “Very well, then I shall begin at once by telling you that you are an ass, sir!” cried Velchaninoff, at the top of his voice. “Why, if you begin that way where will you end, I wonder!” said Pavel Pavlovitch, clearly alarmed more than a little. Velchaninoff did not listen, but roared again, “Your daughter is dying—she is very ill! Have you thrown her over altogether, or not?” “Oh, surely she isn’t dying yet?” “I tell you she’s ill; very, very ill—dangerously ill.” “What, fits? or——” “Don’t talk nonsense. I tell you she is very dangerously ill. You ought to go down, if only for that reason.” “What, to thank your friends, eh? to return thanks for their hospitality? Of course, quite so; I well understand, Alexey Ivanovitch—dearest of friends!” He suddenly seized Velchaninoff by both hands, and added with intoxicated sentiment, almost melted to tears, “Alexey Ivanovitch, don’t shout at me—don’t shout at me, please! If you do, I may throw myself into the Neva—I don’t know!—and we have such important things to talk over. There’s lots of time to go to the Pogoryeltseffs another day.” Velchaninoff did his best to restrain his wrath. “You are drunk, and therefore I don’t understand what you are driving at,” he said sternly. “I’m ready to come to an explanation with you at any moment you like—delighted!—the the sooner the better. But first let me tell you that I am going to take my own measures to secure you. You will sleep here to-night, and to-morrow I shall take you with me to see Liza. I shall not let you go again. I shall bind you, if necessary, and carry you down myself. How do you like this sofa to sleep on?” he added, panting, and indicating a wide, soft divan opposite his own sofa, against the other wall. “Oh—anything will do for me!” “Very well, you shall have this sofa. Here, take these things—here are sheets, blankets, pillow” (Velchaninoff pulled all these things out of a cupboard, and tossed them impatiently to Pavel Pavlovitch, who humbly stood and received them); “now then, make your bed,—come, bustle up!”