“What an idealist you are! I could have understood you, if you were sixteen years old or in your first year at university, but at the age of thirty it’s — I beg your pardon — simply a quixotic way of seeing things!”
At that moment the door was opened silently, and Trokhmovich appeared on the threshold.
“Do you wish me to go to the Kirghiz to trade, sir?” he asked quietly, darting an uneasy glance at Maksheiev and Shevchenko. “They say there is an aul not far away from here.”
“Of course, of course!” Korsakov answered with a smile. “You know yourself, so why ask about it? And don’t forget about the furs.”
“Who’s that?” Maksheiev asked casually when Trokhimovich left.
Korsakov answered confusedly: “Well, let this be between you and me, mon cher. I am neither an officer nor a Cossack,
