retched himself at once.

"You don't... wouldn't like some lunch?" inquired Karmazinov, abandoning
his usual habit but with an air, of course, which would prompt a polite
refusal. Pyotr Stepanovitch at once expressed a desire for lunch. A
shade of offended surprise darkened the face of his host, but only for
an instant; he nervously rang for the servant and, in spite of all his
breeding, raised his voice scornfully as he gave orders for a second
lunch to be served.

"What will you have, cutlet or coffee?" he asked once more.

"A cutlet and coffee, and tell him to bring some more wine, I am
hungry," answered Pyotr Stepanovitch, calmly scrutinising his host's
attire. Mr. Karmazinov was wearing a sort of indoor wadded jacket with
pearl buttons, but it was too short, which was far from becoming to his
rather comfortable stomach and the solid curves of his hips. But tastes
differ. Over his knees he had a checkered woollen plaid reaching to the
floor, though it was warm in the room.

"Are you unwell?" commented Pyotr Stepanovitch.

"No, not unwell, but I am afraid of being so in this climate," answered
the writer in his squeaky voice, though he uttered each word with a soft
cadence and agreeable gentlemanly lisp. "I've been expecting you since
yesterday."

"Why? I didn't say I'd come."

"No, but you have my manuscript. Have you... read it?"

"Manuscript? Which one?"

Karmazinov was terribly surprised.

"But you've brought it with you, haven't you?" He was so disturbed that
he even left off eating and looked at Pyotr Stepanovitch with a face of
dismay.

"Ah, that _Bonjour_ you mean...."

_"Merci."_

"Oh, all right. I'd quite forgotten it and hadn't read it; I haven't had
time. I really don't know, it's not in my pockets... it must be on my
table. Don't be uneasy, it will be found."

"No, I'd better send to your rooms at once. It might be lost; besides,
it might be stolen."

"Oh, who'd want it! But why are you so alarmed? Why, Yulia Mihailovna
told me you always have several copies made--one kept at a notary's
abroad, another in Petersburg, a third in Moscow, and then you send some
to a bank, I believe."

"But Moscow might be burnt again and my manuscript with it. No, I'd
better send at once."

"Stay, here it is!" Pyotr Stepanovitch pulled a roll of note-paper
out of a pocket at the back of his coat. "It's a little crumpled. Only
fancy, it's been lying there with my pocket-handkerchief ever since I
took