as I sit here?..."

Razumov looked apprehensively towards the door of the outer room as if
expecting some shape of evil to turn the handle and appear before him
silently.

"A common thief," he said to himself, "finds more guarantees in the law
he is breaking, and even a brute like Ziemianitch has his consolation."
Razumov envied the materialism of the thief and the passion of the
incorrigible lover. The consequences of their actions were always clear
and their lives remained their own.

But he slept as soundly that night as though he had been consoling
himself in the manner of Ziemianitch. He dropped off suddenly, lay like
a log, remembered no dream on waking. But it was as if his soul had gone
out in the night to gather the flowers of wrathful wisdom. He got up in
a mood of grim determination and as if with a new knowledge of his own
nature. He looked mockingly on the heap of papers on his table; and left
his room to attend the lectures, muttering to himself, "We shall see."

He was in no humour to talk to anybody or hear himself questioned as
to his absence from lectures the day before. But it was difficult to
repulse rudely a very good comrade with a smooth pink face and fair
hair, bearing the nickname amongst his fellow-students of "Madcap
Kostia." He was the idolized only son of a very wealthy and illiterate
Government contractor, and attended the lectures only during the
periodical fits of contrition following upon tearful paternal
remonstrances. Noisily blundering like a retriever puppy, his elated
voice and great gestures filled the bare academy corridors with the
joy of thoughtless animal life, provoking indulgent smiles at a great
distance. His usual discourses treated of trotting horses, wine-parties
in expensive restaurants, and the merits of persons of easy virtue,
with a disarming artlessness of outlook. He pounced upon Razumov about
midday, somewhat less uproariously than his habit was, and led him
aside.

"Just a moment, Kirylo Sidorovitch. A few words here in this quiet
corner."

He felt Razumov's reluctance, and insinuated his hand under his arm
caressingly.

"No--pray do. I don't want to talk to you about any of my silly scrapes.
What are my scrapes? Absolutely nothing. Mere childishness. The other
night I flung a fellow out of a certain place where I was having a
fairly good time. A tyrannical little beast of a quill-driver from the
Treasury department. He was bullying the people of the hou