'Why, you're in love with her to this day,' Onisim retorted malignantly. 'You'd be glad to go back there as before.'
'That's nonsense you're talking. No, my lad, you don't know me either, I can see. Be sent away, and then go dancing attendance—no, thank you, I'd rather be excused. No, I tell you. You may believe me, it's all a thing of the past now.'
'Pray God it be so!'
'But why ever shouldn't I be fair to her, now after all? If now I say she's not good-looking—why, who'd believe me?'
'A queer sort of good looks!'
'Well, find me,—well, mention anybody better-looking . . .'
'Oh, you'd better go back to her, then! . . .'
'Stupid! Do you suppose that's why I say so? Understand me . . .'
'Oh! I understand you,' Onisim answered with a heavy sigh.
Another week passed by. Pyetushkov had positively given up talking with his Onisim, and had given up going out. From morning till night he lay on the sofa, his hands behind his head. He began to get thin and pale, eat unwillingly and hurriedly, and did not smoke at all. Onisim could only shake his head, as he looked at him.
'You're not well, Ivan Afanasiitch,' he said to him more than once.
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