life as a government clerk as he sat in the office of his
department or in his wretched little study. . . . A river, deep,
with fish, a wide garden with narrow avenues, little fountains,
shade, flowers, arbours, a luxurious villa with terraces and turrets
with an Aeolian harp and little silver bells (he had heard of the
existence of an Aeolian harp from German romances); a cloudless
blue sky; pure limpid air fragrant with the scents that recall his
hungry, barefoot, crushed childhood. . . . To get up at five, to
go to bed at nine; to spend the day catching fish, talking with the
peasants. . . . What happiness!

"Ivan Petrovitch, do not torture me! Will you take a hundred
thousand?"

"H'm . . . a hundred and fifty thousand!" muttered Bugrov in a
hollow voice, the voice of a husky bull. He muttered it, and bowed
his head, ashamed of his words, and awaiting the answer.

"Good," said Groholsky, "I agree. I thank you, Ivan Petrovitch
. . . . In a minute. . . . I will not keep you waiting. . . ."

Groholsky jumped up, put on his hat, and staggering backwards, ran
out of the drawing-room.

Bugrov clutched the window curtains more tightly than ever. . . .
He was ashamed . . . . There was a nasty, stupid feeling in his
soul, but, on the other hand, what fair shining hopes swarmed between
his throbbing temples! He was rich!

Liza, who had grasped nothing of what was happening, darted through
the half-opened door trembling all over and afraid that he would
come to her window and fling her away from it. She went into the
nursery, laid herself down on the nurse's bed, and curled herself
up. She was shivering with fever.

Bugrov was left alone. He felt stifled, and he opened the window.
What glorious air breathed fragrance on his face and neck! It would
be good to breathe such air lolling on the cushions of a carriage
. . . . Out there, far beyond the town, among the villages and the
summer villas, the air was sweeter still. . . . Bugrov actually
smiled as he dreamed of the air that would be about him when he
would go out on the verandah of his villa and admire the view. A
long while he dreamed. . . . The sun had set, and still he stood
and dreamed, trying his utmost to cast out of his mind the image
of Liza which obstinately pursued him in all his dreams.

"I have brought it, Ivan Petrovitch!" Groholsky, re-entering,
whispered above his ear. "I have brought it--take it. . . . Here
in this roll there are forty thousand. .