“Just as the knights of the west repelled the invasions of the Mongols, so we, before it is too late, ought to unite and strike together against our foe,” Rashevitch went on in the tone of a preacher, holding up his right hand. “May I appear to the riffraff not as Pavel Ilyitch, but as a mighty, menacing Richard Coeur-de-Lion. Let us give up sloppy sentimentality; enough of it! Let us all make a compact, that as soon as a plebeian comes near us we fling some careless phrase straight in his ugly face: ‘Paws off! Go back to your kennel, you cur!’ straight in his ugly face,” Rashevitch went on gleefully, flicking his crooked finger in front of him. “In his ugly face!”

“I can’t do that,” Meier brought out, turning away.

“Why not?” Rashevitch answered briskly, anticipating a prolonged and interesting argument. “Why not?”

“Because I am of the artisan class myself!”

As he said this Meier turned crimson, and his neck seemed to swell, and tears actually gleamed in his eyes.

“My father was a simple workman,” he said, in a rough, jerky voice, “but I see no harm in that.”

Rashevitch was fearfully confused. Dumbfounded, as though he had been caught in the act of a crime, he gazed helplessly at Meier, and did not know what to say. Genya and Iraida flushed crimson, and bent over their music; they were ashamed of their tactless father. A minute passed in silence, and there was a feeling of unbearable discomfort, when all at once with a sort of painful stiffness and inappropriateness, there sounded in the air the words:

“Yes, I am of the artisan class, and I am proud of it!”

Thereupon Meier, stumbling awkwardly among the furniture, took his leave, and walked rapidly into the hall, though his carriage was not yet at the door.

“You’ll have a dark drive tonight,” Rashevitch muttered, following him. “The moon does not rise till late tonight.”