They were playing pool⁠—the prince, the big guest, Nekhliudof, Oliver, and someone else. Nekhliudof was standing near the stove talking with someone. When it came the big man’s turn to play, it happened that his ball was just opposite the stove. There was very little space there, and he liked to have elbow-room.

Now, either he didn’t see Nekhliudof, or he did it on purpose; but, as he was flourishing his cue, he hit Nekhliudof in the chest, a tremendous rap. It actually made him groan. What then? He did not think of apologizing, he was so boorish. He even went further: he didn’t look at him; he walks off grumbling⁠—

“Who’s jostling me there? It made me miss my shot. Why can’t we have some room?”

Then the other went up to him, pale as a sheet, but quite self-possessed, and says so politely⁠—

“You ought first, sir, to apologize: you struck me,” says he.