as possible
to apologise where necessary. Nikolay agreed with great alacrity. It
became known at the club that he had had a most delicate explanation
with Pyotr Pavlovitch Gaganov, at the house of the latter, who had been
completely satisfied with his apology. As he went round to pay these
calls Nikolay was very grave and even gloomy. Every one appeared to
receive him sympathetically, but everybody seemed embarrassed and glad
that he was going to Italy. Ivan Ossipovitch was positively tearful, but
was, for some reason, unable to bring himself to embrace him, even
at the final leave-taking. It is true that some of us retained the
conviction that the scamp had simply been making fun of us, and that the
illness was neither here nor there. He went to see Liputin too.

"Tell me," he said, "how could you guess beforehand what I should say
about your sense and prime Agafya with an answer to it?"

"Why," laughed Liputin, "it was because I recognised that you were a
clever man, and so I foresaw what your answer would be."

"Anyway, it was a remarkable coincidence. But, excuse me, did you
consider me a sensible man and not insane when you sent Agafya?"

"For the cleverest and most rational, and I only pretended to believe
that you were insane.... And you guessed at once what was in my mind,
and sent a testimonial to my wit through Agafya."

"Well, there you're a little mistaken. I really was... unwell..."
muttered Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch, frowning. "Bah!" he cried, "do you
suppose I'm capable of attacking people when I'm in my senses? What
object would there be in it?"

Liputin shrank together and didn't know what to answer. Nikolay turned
pale or, at least, so it seemed to Liputin.

"You have a very peculiar way of looking at things, anyhow," Nikolay
went on, "but as for Agafya, I understand, of course, that you simply
sent her to be rude to me."

"I couldn't challenge you to a duel, could I?"

"Oh, no, of course! I seem to have heard that you're not fond of
duels...."

"Why borrow from the French?" said Liputin, doubling up again.

"You're for nationalism, then?"

Liputin shrank into himself more than ever.

"Bah, bah! What do I see?" cried Nicolas, noticing a volume of Considerant
in the most conspicuous place on the table. "You don't mean to say
you're a Fourierist! I'm afraid you must be! And isn't this too
borrowing from the French?" he laughed, tapping the book with his
finger.

"No, that's not taken fro