'I came to wish you a good journey,' Potugin brought out at last.
'And how did you know I was going to-day?' asked Litvinov.
Potugin looked on the floor around him . . . 'I became aware of it . . . as you see. Our last conversation took in the end such a strange turn . . . I did not want to part from you without expressing my sincere good feeling for you.'
'You have good feeling for me now . . . when I am going away?'
Potugin looked mournfully at Litvinov. 'Ah, Grigory Mihalitch, Grigory Mihalitch,' he began with a short sigh, 'it 's no time for that with us now, no time for delicacy or fencing. You don't, so far as I have been able to perceive, take much interest in our national literature, and so, perhaps, you have no clear conception of Vaska Buslaev?'
'Of Vaska Buslaev, the hero of Novgorod . . . in Kirsch-Danilov's collection.'
'What Buslaev?' said Litvinov, somewhat puzzled by the unexpected turn of the conversation. 'I don't know.'
'Well, never mind. I only wanted to draw your attention to something. Vaska Buslaev, after he had taken away his Novgorodians on a