. . With this cheque will
you kindly get twenty the day after to-morrow from Valentinov? . . .
Here is a bill of exchange . . . a cheque. . . . The remaining
thirty thousand in a day or two. . . . My steward will bring it to
you."

Groholsky, pink and excited, with all his limbs in motion, laid
before Bugrov a heap of rolls of notes and bundles of papers. The
heap was big, and of all sorts of hues and tints. Never in the
course of his life had Bugrov seen such a heap. He spread out his
fat fingers and, not looking at Groholsky, fell to going through
the bundles of notes and bonds. . . .

Groholsky spread out all the money, and moved restlessly about the
room, looking for the Dulcinea who had been bought and sold.

Filling his pockets and his pocket-book, Bugrov thrust the securities
into the table drawer, and, drinking off half a decanter full of
water, dashed out into the street.

"Cab!" he shouted in a frantic voice.

At half-past eleven that night he drove up to the entrance of the
Paris Hotel. He went noisily upstairs and knocked at the door of
Groholsky's apartments. He was admitted. Groholsky was packing his
things in a portmanteau, Liza was sitting at the table trying on
bracelets. They were both frightened when Bugrov went in to them.
They fancied that he had come for Liza and had brought back the
money which he had taken in haste without reflection. But Bugrov
had not come for Liza. Ashamed of his new get-up and feeling
frightfully awkward in it, he bowed and stood at the door in the
attitude of a flunkey. The get-up was superb. Bugrov was unrecognisable.
His huge person, which had never hitherto worn anything but a
uniform, was clothed in a fresh, brand-new suit of fine French cloth
and of the most fashionable cut. On his feet spats shone with
sparkling buckles. He stood ashamed of his new get-up, and with his
right hand covered the watch-chain for which he had, an hour before,
paid three hundred roubles.

"I have come about something," he began. "A business agreement is
beyond price. I am not going to give up Mishutka. . . ."

"What Mishutka?" asked Groholsky.

"My son."

Groholsky and Liza looked at each other. Liza's eyes bulged, her
cheeks flushed, and her lips twitched. . . .

"Very well," she said.

She thought of Mishutka's warm little cot. It would be cruel to
exchange that warm little cot for a chilly sofa in the hotel, and
she consented.

"I shall see him," she said.

Bugrov bow