“You must understand,” he added, “that otherwise I should never have agreed to accept the commission; there are quite enough disagreeables already.” “You liked the job, and accepted it with pleasure,” giggled Pavel Pavlovitch. “That is foolish on your part; but I suppose you must be forgiven. You must have seen from that boy’s behaviour that I play no part in this matter. Others are the principal actors, not I!” “At all events the job had attractions for you.” Pavel Pavlovitch sat down and poured out a glass of wine. “You think I shall knuckle under to that young gentleman? Pooh! I shall drive him out to-morrow, sir, like dust. I’ll smoke this little gentleman out of his nursery, sir; you see if I don’t.” He drank his wine off at a gulp, and poured out some more. He seemed to grow freer as the moments went by; he talked glibly now. “Ha-ha! Sachinka and Nadienka!(2) darling little children. Ha-ha-ha!” He was beside himself with fury. At this moment, a terrific crash of thunder startled the silence, and was followed by flashes of lightning and sheets of heavy rain. Pavel Pavlovitch rose and shut the window. “The fellow asked you if you were afraid of the thunder; do you remember? Ha-ha-ha! Velchaninoff afraid of thunder! And all that about ‘fifty years old’ wasn’t bad, eh? Ha-ha-ha!” Pavel Pavlovitch was in a spiteful mood. “You seem to have settled yourself here,” said Velchaninoff, who could hardly speak for agony. “Do as you like, I must lie down.” “Come, you wouldn’t turn a _dog_ out to-night!” replied Pavel, glad of a grievance. “Of course, sit down; drink your wine—do anything you like,” murmured Velchaninoff, as he laid himself flat on his divan, and groaned with pain. “Am I to spend the night? Aren’t you afraid?” “What of?” asked Velchaninoff, raising his head slightly. “Oh, nothing. Only last time you seemed to be a little alarmed, that’s all.” “You are a fool!” said the other angrily, as he turned his face to the wall. “Very well, sir; all right,” said Pavel. Velchaninoff fell asleep within a minute or so of lying down. The unnatural strain of the day, and his sickly state of health together, had suddenly undermined his strength, and he was as weak as a child. But physical pain would have its own, and soon conquered weakness and sleep; in an hour he was wide awake again, and rose from the divan in anguish. Pavel Pavlovitch was asleep on the other sofa. He was dressed, and in his boots; his hat lay on the floor, and his eye-glass hung by its cord almost to the ground. Velchaninoff did not wake his guest. The room was full of tobacco smoke, and the bottle was empty; he looked savagely at the sleeping drunkard. Having twisted himself painfully off his bed, Velchaninoff began to walk about, groaning and thinking of his agony; he could lie no longer.