“There, now, I should like to beat that card,” said Loúhnof of a card the fat squire, who was staking half-roubles, had put down.
“You beat Ilyín’s, never mind me!” remarked the squire.
And, really, Ilyín’s cards lost more often than any of the others. He would tear up the losing card nervously under the table, and choose another with trembling fingers. Toúrbin rose from the sofa and asked the Greek to let him sit by the “banker.” The Greek moved to another place and gave his chair to the Count, who began watching Loúhnof’s hands attentively, not taking his eyes off them.
“Ilyín!” he suddenly said, in his usual voice, which quite unintentionally drowned all others, “why do you repeat the same card? You don’t know how to play.”
“It’s all the same how one plays.”
“That way you’ll be sure to lose. Let me play for you.”
“No, please excuse me. I always do it myself. Play for yourself if you like.”
“I said I should not play for myself, but I should like to play for you. I am vexed that you are losing.”
“I suppose it’s my fate.”
The Count was silent, but putting his elbows on the table, again gazed intently at the “banker’s” hands.
“Abominable!” he suddenly said, in a loud, long-drawn tone.
Loúhnof glanced at him.
“Abominable, quite abominable!” he repeated, still louder, looking straight into Loúhnof’s eyes.