XI.
Just then the voice of the commander of the battalion was heard outside the tent: "With whom are you there, Nikoláy Fédorovich?"
Bolkhóv gave him my name, and thereupon three officers entered the booth: Major Kirsánov, the adjutant of his battalion, and the captain, Trosénko.
Kirsánov was a short, plump man, with a black moustache, ruddy cheeks, and sparkling eyes. His small eyes were the most prominent feature of his face. Whenever he laughed, all there was left of them were two moist little stars, and these stars, together with his stretched lips and craning neck, assumed a very strange expression of blankness. Kirsánov conducted himself in the army better than anybody else; his inferiors did not speak ill of him, and his superiors respected him, although the common opinion was that he was exceedingly dull. He knew his duties, was exact and zealous, always had money, kept a carriage and a cook, and very naturally knew how to pretend that he was proud.
"What are you chatting about, Nikoláy Fédorovich?" he said, upon entering.
"About the amenities of the service in the Caucasus."
But just then Kirsánov noticed me, a yunker, and, to let me feel his importance, he asked, as though not hearing Bolkhóv's answer, and glancing at the drum:
"Are you tired, Nikoláy Fédorovich?"
"No, we —" Bolkhóv began.
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