want to sleep.”
Toúrbin, however, came up and stroked his head.
“Well, my dear friend, been cleaned out—lost everything? Tell me.”
Ilyín gave no answer.
The Count pulled his arm.
“I have lost. But what’s that to you?” muttered Ilyín, in a sleepy, indifferent, discontented voice, without changing his pose.
“All?”
“Well—yes. What matter? All. What’s it to you?”
“Listen. Tell me the truth as a comrade,” said the Count, inclined to tenderness by the influence of the wine he had been drinking, and continuing to stroke Ilyín’s hair. “I have really grown fond of you. Tell the truth. If you have lost Government money I’ll save you: it will soon be too late. … Had you Government money?”