ter an intent look at
his father he decided not to pester him further.

The mother, lacking in diplomacy and prudence, like all mothers, could
not restrain herself, and said:

"You ought to give him another six roubles, Yevgraf Ivanovitch, for a
pair of boots. Why, just see, how can he go to Moscow in such wrecks?"

"Let him take my old ones; they are still quite good."

"He must have trousers, anyway; he is a disgrace to look at."

And immediately after that a storm-signal showed itself, at the sight of
which all the family trembled.

Shiryaev's short, fat neck turned suddenly red as a beetroot. The colour
mounted slowly to his ears, from his ears to his temples, and by degrees
suffused his whole face. Yevgraf Ivanovitch shifted in his chair
and unbuttoned his shirt-collar to save himself from choking. He
was evidently struggling with the feeling that was mastering him. A
deathlike silence followed. The children held their breath. Fedosya
Semyonovna, as though she did not grasp what was happening to her
husband, went on:

"He is not a little boy now, you know; he is ashamed to go about without
clothes."

Shiryaev suddenly jumped up, and with all his might flung down his fat
pocket-book in the middle of the table, so that a hunk of bread flew off
a plate. A revolting expression of anger, resentment, avarice--all mixed
together--flamed on his face.

"Take everything!" he shouted in an unnatural voice; "plunder me! Take
it all! Strangle me!"

He jumped up from the table, clutched at his head, and ran staggering
about the room.

"Strip me to the last thread!" he shouted in a shrill voice. "Squeeze
out the last drop! Rob me! Wring my neck!"

The student flushed and dropped his eyes. He could not go on eating.
Fedosya Semyonovna, who had not after twenty-five years grown used to
her husband's difficult character, shrank into herself and muttered
something in self-defence. An expression of amazement and dull terror
came into her wasted and birdlike face, which at all times looked dull
and scared. The little boys and the elder daughter Varvara, a girl in
her teens, with a pale ugly face, laid down their spoons and sat mute.

Shiryaev, growing more and more ferocious, uttering words each more
terrible than the one before, dashed up to the table and began shaking
the notes out of his pocket-book.

"Take them!" he muttered, shaking all over. "You've eaten and drunk your
fill, so here's money for you too! I need