Ilyín sprang up from the sofa.
“Well then, if you wish me to tell you, don’t talk to me, because … and please don’t talk to me. … To shoot myself is the only thing!” said Ilyín, with real despair, and his head fell on his hands and he burst into tears, though but a moment before he had been calmly thinking about amblers.
“Oh, you beauteous maiden! Where’s the man who has not done the like? It’s not such calamity; perhaps we’ll make it up. You wait for me here.”
The Count left the room.
“Where is the squire Loúhnof’s room?” he asked the boots.
The boots offered to show him the way. In spite of the valet’s remark that his master had only just returned and was undressing, the Count went in. Loúhnof was sitting in his dressing-gown at a table, counting several packets of paper money that lay before him. A bottle of Rhine wine, of which he was very fond, stood on the table. After winning, he had allowed himself this pleasure. Loúhnof looked coldly and sternly through his spectacles at the Count, as though he did not recognise him.
“You don’t recognise me, I think?” said the Count, resolutely stepping up to the table.
Loúhnof recognised him, and said: “What is it you want?”
“I should like to play with you,” said Toúrbin, sitting down on the sofa.
“Now?”