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"Oh, if you don't want to say, don't. Only it's no good your

talking to her. She's a wench, and you're a gentleman," he said

with a jerk of the neck. "You understand everything, I see, and

have taken stock of everything, and look with commiseration on my

shortcomings," he began again, raising his voice.

"Nikolay Dmitrievitch, Nikolay Dmitrievitch," whispered Marya

Nikolaevna, again going up to him.

"Oh, very well, very well!... But where's the supper? Ah, here it

is," he said, seeing a waiter with a tray. "Here, set it here,"

he added angrily, and promptly seizing the vodka, he poured out a

glassful and drank it greedily. "Like a drink?" he turned to his

brother, and at once became better humored.

"Well, enough of Sergey Ivanovitch. I'm glad to see you, anyway.

After all's said and done, we're not strangers. Come, have a

drink. Tell me what you're doing," he went on, greedily munching

a piece of bread, and pouring out another glassful. "How are you

living?"