The host returned, and smiled as he sat down opposite his guest. Neither of them spoke.
“Oh, yes! I was speaking of Atlásnui. I had a great mind to buy the mares of Dubovitsky. Nothing but rubbish was left.”
“He was burned out,” said Sierpukhovskoï, and suddenly stood up and looked around. He remembered that he owed this ruined man twenty thousand rubles; and that, if burned out were said of anyone, it might by good rights be said about himself. He began to laugh.
Both kept silence long. The master was revolving in his mind how he might boast a little before his guest. Sierpukhovskoï was cogitating how he might show that he did not consider himself burned out. But the thoughts of both moved with difficulty, in spite of the fact that they tried to enliven themselves with cigars.
“Well, when shall we have something to drink?” asked the guest of himself.
“At all events, we must have something to drink, else we shall die of the blues,” said the host to himself.
“How is it? are you going to stay here long?” asked Sierpukhovskoï.
“About a month yet. Shall we have a little lunch? What say you? Fritz, is everything ready?”
They went back to the dining-room. There, under a hanging lamp, stood the table loaded with candles and very extraordinary things: siphons, and bottles with fancy stoppers, extraordinary wine in decanters,