“What won’t you be responsible for?” said Pyotr Stepanovitch again.
“What I don’t choose; that’s enough. I don’t want to talk about it any more.”
Pyotr Stepanovitch controlled himself and changed the subject.
“To speak of something else,” he began, “will you be with us this evening? It’s Virginsky’s name-day; that’s the pretext for our meeting.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Do me a favour. Do come. You must. We must impress them by our number and our looks. You have a face … well, in one word, you have a fateful face.”
“You think so?” laughed Kirillov. “Very well, I’ll come, but not for the sake of my face. What time is it?”
“Oh, quite early, half-past six. And, you know, you can go in, sit down, and not speak to any one, however many there may be there. Only, I say, don’t forget to bring pe
