"Hm!" Razumihin cleared his throat loudly. Luzhin looked at him
inquiringly.

"That's all right, go on."

Luzhin shrugged his shoulders.

"Your mamma had commenced a letter to you while I was sojourning in
her neighbourhood. On my arrival here I purposely allowed a few days to
elapse before coming to see you, in order that I might be fully
assured that you were in full possession of the tidings; but now, to my
astonishment..."

"I know, I know!" Raskolnikov cried suddenly with impatient vexation.
"So you are the _fiance_? I know, and that's enough!"

There was no doubt about Pyotr Petrovitch's being offended this time,
but he said nothing. He made a violent effort to understand what it all
meant. There was a moment's silence.

Meanwhile Raskolnikov, who had turned a little towards him when he
answered, began suddenly staring at him again with marked curiosity, as
though he had not had a good look at him yet, or as though something
new had struck him; he rose from his pillow on purpose to stare at
him. There certainly was something peculiar in Pyotr Petrovitch's whole
appearance, something which seemed to justify the title of "fiance" so
unceremoniously applied to him. In the first place, it was evident, far
too much so indeed, that Pyotr Petrovitch had made eager use of his few
days in the capital to get himself up and rig himself out in expectation
of his betrothed--a perfectly innocent and permissible proceeding,
indeed. Even his own, perhaps too complacent, consciousness of the
agreeable improvement in his appearance might have been forgiven in such
circumstances, seeing that Pyotr Petrovitch had taken up the role of
fiance. All his clothes were fresh from the tailor's and were all
right, except for being too new and too distinctly appropriate. Even
the stylish new round hat had the same significance. Pyotr Petrovitch
treated it too respectfully and held it too carefully in his hands. The
exquisite pair of lavender gloves, real Louvain, told the same tale,
if only from the fact of his not wearing them, but carrying them in
his hand for show. Light and youthful colours predominated in Pyotr
Petrovitch's attire. He wore a charming summer jacket of a fawn shade,
light thin trousers, a waistcoat of the same, new and fine linen, a
cravat of the lightest cambric with pink stripes on it, and the best
of it was, this all suited Pyotr Petrovitch. His very fresh and even
handsome face looked younger than his forty-f