“Come, just one more card.”

“Very good,” answered Dolohov, finishing his addition. “Very good. Twenty-one roubles…done,” he said, pointing to the figure 21, over and above the round sum of forty-three thousand, and taking a pack, he made ready to deal, Rostov submissively turned down the corner, and instead of the 8000 he had meant to write, noted down 21.

“It’s all the same to me,” he said; “only it’s interesting to me to know whether you will win on that ten or let me have it.”

Dolohov began seriously dealing. Oh, how Rostov hated at that moment those reddish hands, with their short fingers and the hairs visible under the shirt sleeves, those hands that held him in their clutches.…The ten was not beaten. “Forty-three thousand to your score, count,” said Dolohov, and he got up from the table stretching. “One does get tired sitting so long,” he said.

“Yes, I’m tired too,” said Rostov.

Dolohov cut him short, as though to warn him it was not for him to take a light tone.

“When am I to receive the money, count?”

Rostov flushing hotly drew Dolohov away into the other room.

“I can’t pay it all at once, you must take an I.O.U.,” said he

“Listen, Rostov,” said Dolohov, smiling brightly, and looking straight into Nikolay’s eyes, “you know the saying: ‘Lucky in love, unlucky at cards.’ Your cousin is in love with you. I know it.”

“Oh! this is awful to feel oneself in this man’s power like this,” thought Rostov. He knew the shock the news of this loss would be to his father and mother; he knew what happiness it would be to be free of it all, and felt that Dolohov knew that he could set him free from this shame and grief, and wanted now to play cat and mouse with him.

“Your cousin…” Dolohov would have said, but Nikolay cut him short.

“My cousin has nothing to do with the matter, and there is no need to mention her!” he cried, with fury.

“Then, when am I to receive it?” asked Dolohov.

“To-morrow,” said Rostov, and went out of the room.

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