Raskolnikov’s poor surroundings, and now these words broke out spontaneously. A silence followed. There was a light in Dounia’s eyes, and even Pulcheria Alexandrovna looked kindly at Sonia.
“Rodya,” she said, getting up, “we shall have dinner together, of course. Come, Dounia. … And you, Rodya, had better go for a little walk, and then rest and lie down before you come to see us. … I am afraid we have exhausted you. …”
“Yes, yes, I’ll come,” he answered, getting up fussily. “But I have something to see to.”
“But surely you will have dinner together?” cried Razumihin, looking in surprise at Raskolnikov. “What do you mean?”
“Yes, yes, I am coming … of course, of course! And you stay a minute. You do not want him just now, do you, mother? Or perhaps I am taking him from you?”
“Oh, no, no. And will you, Dmitri Prokofitch, do us the favour of dining with us?”
“Please do,” added Dounia.
Razumihin bowed, positively radiant. For one moment, they were all strangely embarrassed.
“Goodbye, Rodya, that is till we meet. I do not like saying goodbye. Goodbye, Nastasya. Ah, I have said goodbye again.”
Pulcheria Alexandrovna meant to greet Sonia, too; but it somehow failed to come off, and she went in a flutter out of the room.