"No, that's
nothing. We must postpone that to a more propitious time.
Meanwhile--meanwhile, Ivan Andreievitch, I've hit it at last!"
"What is it this time?" I asked.
He could hardly speak for his excitement. "It's wood--the bark--the bark
of the tree, you know--a new kind of fibre for cloth. If I hadn't got to
look after these people here, I'd take you and show you now. You're a
clever fellow--you'd understand at once. I've been showing it to Alexei"
(he nodded in the direction of Semyonov), "and he entirely agrees with
me that there's every kind of possibility in it. The thing will be to
get the labour--that's the trouble nowadays--but I'll find somebody--one
of these timber men...."
So that was it, was it? I looked across at Semyonov, who was now seated
on Vera's right hand just opposite Boris Grogoff. He was very quiet,
very still, looking about him, his square pale beard a kind of symbol of
the secret immobility of his soul. I fancied that I detected behind his
placidity an almost relieved self-satisfaction, as though things were
going very much better than he had expected.
"So Alexei Petrovitch thinks well of it, does he?" I asked.
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