A shade of offended surprise darkened the face of his host, but only for an instant; he nervously rang for the servant and, in spite of all his breeding, raised his voice scornfully as he gave orders for a second lunch to be served.
"What will you have, cutlet or coffee ?" he asked once more.
"A cutlet and coffee, and tell him to bring some more wine, I am hungry," answered Pyotr Stepanovitch, calmly scrutinising his host's attire.

Mr.Karmazinov was wearing a sort of indoor wadded jacket with pearl buttons, but it was too short, which was far from becoming to his rather comfortable stomach and the solid curves of his hips.

But tastes differ.

Over his knees he had a checkered woollen plaid reaching to the floor, though it was warm in the room.
"Are you unwell ?" commented Pyotr Stepanovitch.
"No, not unwell, but I am afraid of being so in this climate," answered the writer in his squeaky voice, though he uttered each word with a soft cadence and agreeable gentlemanly lisp.

"I've been expecting you since yesterday." "Why?
I didn't say I'd come." "No, but you have my manuscript.