With the carriage there floated before him all the secret dreams over which he had gloated, through the long years of his life as a government clerk as he sat in the office of his department or in his wretched little study.⁠ ⁠… A river, deep, with fish, a wide garden with narrow avenues, little fountains, shade, flowers, arbours, a luxurious villa with terraces and turrets with an Aeolian harp and little silver bells (he had heard of the existence of an Aeolian harp from German romances); a cloudless blue sky; pure limpid air fragrant with the scents that recall his hungry, barefoot, crushed childhood.⁠ ⁠… To get up at five, to go to bed at nine; to spend the day catching fish, talking with the peasants.⁠ ⁠… What happiness!

“Ivan Petrovitch, do not torture me! Will you take a hundred thousand?”

“H’m⁠ ⁠… a hundred and fifty thousand!” muttered Bugrov in a hollow voice, the voice of a husky bull. He muttered it, and bowed his head, ashamed of his words, and awaiting the answer.

“Good,” said Groholsky, “I agree. I thank you, Ivan Petrovitch.⁠ ⁠… In a minute.⁠ ⁠… I will not keep you waiting.⁠ ⁠…”

Groholsky jumped up, put on his hat, and staggering backwards, ran out of the drawing room.

Bugrov clutched the window curtains more tightly than ever.⁠ ⁠… He was ashamed.⁠ ⁠… There was a nasty, stupid feeling in his soul, but, on the other hand, what fair shining hopes swarmed between his throbbing temples! He was rich!

Liza, who had grasped nothing of what was happening, darted through the half-opened door trembling all over and afraid that he would come to her window and fling her away from it. She went into the nursery, laid herself down on the nurse’s bed, and curled herself up. She was shivering with fever.