I am going. Goodbye!"

"Till we meet again!" She held out her hand to him and sadly looked into
his eyes.

"Will you go to sleep now?" asked Foma, firmly shaking her hand.

"I'll read a little."

"You're to your books as the drunkard to his whisky," said the youth,
with pity.

"What is there that is better?"

Walking along the street he looked at the windows of the house and in
one of them he noticed Luba's face. It was just as vague as everything
that the girl told him, even as vague as her longings. Foma nodded his
head toward her and with a consciousness of his superiority over her,
thought:

"She has also lost her way, like the other one."

At this recollection he shook his head, as though he wanted to frighten
away the thought of Medinskaya, and quickened his steps.

Night was coming on, and the air was fresh. A cold, invigorating wind
was violently raging in the street, driving the dust along the sidewalks
and throwing it into the faces of the passers-by. It was dark, and
people were hastily striding along in the darkness. Foma wrinkled his
face, for the dust filled his eyes, and thought:

"If it is a woman I meet now--then it will mean that Sophya Pavlovna
will receive me in a friendly way, as before. I am going to see her
tomorrow. And if it is a man--I won't go tomorrow, I'll wait."

But it was a dog that came to meet him, and this irritated Foma to such
an extent that he felt like striking him with his cane.

In the refreshment-room of the club, Foma was met by the jovial
Ookhtishchev. He stood at the door, and chatted with a certain stout,
whiskered man; but, noticing Gordyeeff, he came forward to meet him,
saying, with a smile:

"How do you do, modest millionaire!" Foma rather liked him for his jolly
mood, and was always pleased to meet him.

Firmly and kind-heartedly shaking Ookhtishchev's hand, Foma asked him:

"And what makes you think that I am modest?"

"What a question! A man, who lives like a hermit, who neither
drinks, nor plays, nor likes any women. By the way, do you know, Foma
Ignatyevich, that peerless patroness of ours is going abroad tomorrow
for the whole summer?"

"Sophya Pavlovna?" asked Foma, slowly. "Of course! The sun of my life is
setting. And, perhaps, of yours as well?"

Ookhtishchev made a comical, sly grimace and looked into Foma's face.

And Foma stood before him, feeling that his head was lowering on his
breast, and that he was unable to hinder it.

"Yes,