But he
could never get any ideas into his head. His head wasn't worth anything
better than to be split by a champagne bottle.
Razumov, protesting that he had no time, made an attempt to get away.
The other's tone changed to confidential earnestness.
"For God's sake, Kirylo, my dear soul, let me make some sort of
sacrifice. It would not be a sacrifice really. I have my rich dad behind
me. There's positively no getting to the bottom of his pocket."
And rejecting indignantly Razumov's suggestion that this was drunken
raving, he offered to lend him some money to escape abroad with. He
could always get money from his dad. He had only to say that he had
lost it at cards or something of that sort, and at the same time promise
solemnly not to miss a single lecture for three months on end. That
would fetch the old man; and he, Kostia, was quite equal to the
sacrifice. Though he really did not see what was the good for him to
attend the lectures. It was perfectly hopeless.
"Won't you let me be of some use?" he pleaded to the silent Razumov,
who with his eyes on the ground and utterly unable to penetrate the real
drift of the other's intention, felt a strange reluctance to clear up
the point.
"What makes you think I want to go abroad?" he asked at last very
quietly.
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