Page:The Novels of Ivan Turgenev (volume VII).djvu/14

Rh 'Why, what was the first misfortune?'

'What? why, we've wasted our day for nothing—don't you reckon that as anything?'

'Yes of course. That awful Golushkin! We oughtn't to have drunk so much wine. My head aches now fearfully.'

'I wasn't speaking of Golushkin; he at any rate gave us some money, so that was at least something gained by our visit!'

'Surely you don't regret Paklin's having taken us to his what was it he called them—poll-parrots?'

'There's nothing to regret in it and there 's nothing to rejoice at either. I 'm not one of those who take interest in such trifles I was not referring to that misfortune.'

'What, then?'

Markelov make no reply, he simply turned a little in his corner, as though he were wrapping himself up. Nezhdanov could not quite make out his face; only his moustaches stood out in a black transverse line; but ever since the morning he had been conscious of something in Markelov it was better not to touch upon—some obscure, secret irritation.

'Tell me, Sergei Mihalovitch,' he began after a long pause, 'are you in earnest in admiring Mr. Kislyakov's letters, that you gave me to read this morning? You know—