'I came yesterday from Wiesbaden,' Polozov replied in deliberate tones, 'to do some shopping for my wife, and I 'm going back to Wiesbaden to-day.'
'Oh, yes! You're married, to be sure, and they say, to such a beauty!'
Polozov turned his eyes away. 'Yes, they say so.'
Sanin laughed. 'I see you're just the same . . . as phlegmatic as you were at school.'
'Why should I be different?'
'And they do say,' Sanin added with special emphasis on the word 'do,' 'that your wife is very rich.'
'They say that too.'
'Do you mean to say, Ippolit Sidorovitch, you are not certain on that point?'
'I don't meddle, my dear Dimitri . . . Pavlovitch? Yes, Pavlovitch!—in my wife's affairs.'
'You don't meddle? Not in any of her affairs?'
Polozov again shifted his eyes. 'Not in any, my boy. She does as she likes, and so do I.'
'Where are you going now?' Sanin inquired.
'I 'm not going anywhere just now; I 'm standing in the street and talking to you; but when we've finished talking, I 'm going back to my hotel, and am going to have lunch.'
'Would you care for my company?'
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