that somewhere in this world there is a pure, refined, poetical
life. But where was it? Volodya had never heard a word of it from
his _maman_ or any of the people round about him.

When the footman came to wake him for the morning train, he pretended
to be asleep. . . .

"Bother it! Damn it all!" he thought.

He got up between ten and eleven.

Combing his hair before the looking-glass, and looking at his ugly
face, pale from his sleepless night, he thought:

"It's perfectly true . . . an ugly duckling!"

When _maman_ saw him and was horrified that he was not at his
examination, Volodya said:

"I overslept myself, _maman_. . . . But don't worry, I will get a
medical certificate."

Madame Shumihin and Nyuta waked up at one o'clock. Volodya heard
Madame Shumihin open her window with a bang, heard Nyuta go off
into a peal of laughter in reply to her coarse voice. He saw the
door open and a string of nieces and other toadies (among the latter
was his _maman_) file into lunch, caught a glimpse of Nyuta's freshly
washed laughing face, and, beside her, the black brows and beard
of her husband the architect, who had just arrived.

Nyuta was wearing a Little Russian dress which did not suit her at
all, and made her look clumsy; the architect was making dull and
vulgar jokes. The rissoles served at lunch had too much onion in
them--so it seemed to Volodya. It also seemed to him that Nyuta
laughed loudly on purpose, and kept glancing in his direction to
give him to understand that the memory of the night did not trouble
her in the least, and that she was not aware of the presence at
table of the "ugly duckling."

At four o'clock Volodya drove to the station with his _maman_. Foul
memories, the sleepless night, the prospect of expulsion from school,
the stings of conscience--all roused in him now an oppressive,
gloomy anger. He looked at _maman_'s sharp profile, at her little
nose, and at the raincoat which was a present from Nyuta, and
muttered:

"Why do you powder? It's not becoming at your age! You make yourself
up, don't pay your debts at cards, smoke other people's tobacco
. . . . It's hateful! I don't love you . . . I don't love you!"

He was insulting her, and she moved her little eyes about in alarm,
flung up her hands, and whispered in horror:

"What are you saying, my dear! Good gracious! the coachman will
hear! Be quiet or the coachman will hear! He can overhear everything."

"I don't love you . . . I