“What have you got there under the table-cloth?” asked Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch, suddenly noticing it.
“That?” said Lebyadkin, turning towards it also. “That’s from your generosity, by way of house-warming, so to say; considering also the length of the walk, and your natural fatigue,” he sniggered ingratiatingly. Then he got up on tiptoe, and respectfully and carefully lifted the table-cloth from the table in the corner. Under it was seen a slight meal: ham, veal, sardines, cheese, a little green decanter, and a long bottle of Bordeaux. Everything had been laid neatly, expertly, and almost daintily.
“Was that your effort?”
“Yes, sir. Ever since yesterday I’ve done my best, and all to do you honour.… Marya Timofyevna doesn’t trouble herself, as you know, on that score. And what’s more its
