He was ill-tempered and unusually irritable.
"Well, old boy," the bookseller began for the hundredth time, "and
when are you going to be married?"
"Confound your 'when are you going to be married!' As if a man hadn't
enough trouble without it! Why don't you get married yourself?"
growled the schoolmaster.
"Oh! because I have my old Stafva," answered the bookseller, who always
had a number of stereotyped answers in readiness.
"I was married very happily," said the Pole, "but my wife is dead,
now, ugh!"
"Is she?" mimicked the schoolmaster; "and the gentleman is a widower?
How am I to reconcile these facts?"
The Pole nodded, for he did not in the least understand what the
schoolmaster was driving at.
The latter felt bored by his friends; their topic of conversation was
always the same; he knew their replies by heart.
Presently he went into the corridor for a few moments to fetch his
cigar-case which he had left in the pocket of his overcoat. The
bookseller instantly raided the cupboard and returned with the
mysterious parcel. As it was not sealed, he opened it quickly; it
contained a beautiful American sleeping-suit; he hung it carefully
over the back of the schoolmaster's chair.
"Ugh!" said the Pole, grinning, as if he were looking at something
unsightly.
Pages:
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115