'It's not my fault, Onisim Sergeitch.'
'Not your fault! God knows. Why, he's lost his heart to you. And you, God forgive you, treated him as if he were one of yourselves. Don't come, says you, I'm sick of you. Why, though he's not much to boast of, he's a gentleman anyway. He's a gentleman born, you know. . . Do you realise that?'
'But he's such a dull person, Onisim Sergeitch . . .'
'Dull! So you must have merry fellows about you!'
'And it's not so much that he's dull: he's so cross, so jealous.'
'Ah, you, you're as haughty as a princess! He was in your way, I dare say!'
'But you yourself, Onisim Sergeitch, if you remember, were put out with him about it; "Why is he such friends?" you said; "what's he always coming for?"'
'Well, was I to be pleased with him for it, do you suppose?'
'Well, then, why are you angry with me now? Here, he's given up coming.'
Onisim positively stamped.
'But what am I to do with him, if he's such a madman?' he added, dropping his voice.
'But how am I in fault? What can I do?'
'I'll tell you what: come with me to him.'
'God forbid!'
'Why won't you come?'
312
