l Fyodor Pavlovitch's bedroom lay open before him. It
was not a large room, and was divided in two parts by a red screen,
"Chinese," as Fyodor Pavlovitch used to call it. The word "Chinese"
flashed into Mitya's mind, "and behind the screen, is Grushenka," thought
Mitya. He began watching Fyodor Pavlovitch, who was wearing his new
striped-silk dressing-gown, which Mitya had never seen, and a silk cord
with tassels round the waist. A clean, dandified shirt of fine linen with
gold studs peeped out under the collar of the dressing-gown. On his head
Fyodor Pavlovitch had the same red bandage which Alyosha had seen.

"He has got himself up," thought Mitya.

His father was standing near the window, apparently lost in thought.
Suddenly he jerked up his head, listened a moment, and hearing nothing
went up to the table, poured out half a glass of brandy from a decanter
and drank it off. Then he uttered a deep sigh, again stood still a moment,
walked carelessly up to the looking-glass on the wall, with his right hand
raised the red bandage on his forehead a little, and began examining his
bruises and scars, which had not yet disappeared.

"He's alone," thought Mitya, "in all probability he's alone."

Fyodor Pavlovitch moved away from the looking-glass, turned suddenly to
the window and looked out. Mitya instantly slipped away into the shadow.

"She may be there behind the screen. Perhaps she's asleep by now," he
thought, with a pang at his heart. Fyodor Pavlovitch moved away from the
window. "He's looking for her out of the window, so she's not there. Why
should he stare out into the dark? He's wild with impatience." ... Mitya
slipped back at once, and fell to gazing in at the window again. The old
man was sitting down at the table, apparently disappointed. At last he put
his elbow on the table, and laid his right cheek against his hand. Mitya
watched him eagerly.

"He's alone, he's alone!" he repeated again. "If she were here, his face
would be different."

Strange to say, a queer, irrational vexation rose up in his heart that she
was not here. "It's not that she's not here," he explained to himself,
immediately, "but that I can't tell for certain whether she is or not."
Mitya remembered afterwards that his mind was at that moment exceptionally
clear, that he took in everything to the slightest detail, and missed no
point. But a feeling of misery, the misery of uncertainty and indecision,
was growing in his heart with every