“I’ll pretend to be asleep,” thought Ilyín, “or else I must speak to him, and I 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?”