'He used not to conceal his convictions,' Mashurina put in gloomily: 'it's not for us to find fault with him!'
'Of course; only he ought to have thought of others too, who may be compromised by him now.'
'Why do you suppose that of him?' . . . Ostrodumov boomed in his turn: 'Basanov's a man of strong will; he will never betray any one. As for prudence . . . let me tell you, we're not all equally able to be prudent, Mr. Paklin!'
Paklin was offended, and was about to retort, but Nezhdanov stopped him.
'Gentlemen,' he cried, be so good as to let politics alone for a time, please!'
A silence followed.
'I met Skoropihin to-day,' Paklin began at last, 'our great national critic and aesthetic enthusiast. What an intolerable creature! He's for ever boiling over and frothing, for all the world like a bottle of bad sour kvas. . . . The waiter, as he runs, holds it down with his finger instead of a cork, a fat raisin sticks in the neck─it goes on bubbling and hissing─and when once all the foam's flown out of it, all that's left at the bottom is a few drops of villainous sour stuff, which quenches no one's thirst, but only gives one a stomach-ache! . . .
22
