"I won't."

Samoylenko blinked and turned crimson; he mechanically drew towards
him the book with the spider on it and looked at it, then he got
up and took his hat.

Von Koren felt sorry for him.

"What it is to have to live and do with people like this," said the
zoologist, and he kicked a paper into the corner with indignation.
"You must understand that this is not kindness, it is not love, but
cowardice, slackness, poison! What's gained by reason is lost by
your flabby good-for-nothing hearts! When I was ill with typhoid
as a schoolboy, my aunt in her sympathy gave me pickled mushrooms
to eat, and I very nearly died. You, and my aunt too, must understand
that love for man is not to be found in the heart or the stomach
or the bowels, but here!"

Von Koren slapped himself on the forehead.

"Take it," he said, and thrust a hundred-rouble note into his hand.

"You've no need to be angry, Kolya," said Samoylenko mildly, folding
up the note. "I quite understand you, but . . . you must put yourself
in my place."

"You are an old woman, that's what you are."

The deacon burst out laughing.