“The papers, Yakov Petrovitch, the papers . . . his Excellency has been pleased to ask for them; have you got them ready?” Mr. Golyadkin senior’s friend whispered in a hurried undertone. “Andrey Filippovitch is waiting for you. . . .”
“I know he is waiting without your telling me,” said Mr. Golyadkin senior, also in a hurried whisper.
“No, Yakov Petrovitch, I did not mean that; I did not mean that at all, Yakov Petrovitch, not that at all; I sympathise with you, Yakov Petrovitch, and am humbly moved by genuine interest.”
“Which I most humbly beg you to spare me. Allow me, allow me . . .”
“You’ll put it in an envelope, of course, Yakov Petrovitch, and you’ll put a mark in the third page; allow me, Yakov Petrovitch. . . .”
“You allow me, if you please . . .”
“But, I say, there’s a blot
