Bugrov was left alone. He felt stifled, and he opened the window. What glorious air breathed fragrance on his face and neck! It would be good to breathe such air lolling on the cushions of a carriage.⁠ ⁠… Out there, far beyond the town, among the villages and the summer villas, the air was sweeter still.⁠ ⁠… Bugrov actually smiled as he dreamed of the air that would be about him when he would go out on the verandah of his villa and admire the view. A long while he dreamed.⁠ ⁠… The sun had set, and still he stood and dreamed, trying his utmost to cast out of his mind the image of Liza which obstinately pursued him in all his dreams.

“I have brought it, Ivan Petrovitch!” Groholsky, reentering, whispered above his ear. “I have brought it⁠—take it.⁠ ⁠… Here in this roll there are forty thousand.⁠ ⁠… With this cheque will you kindly get twenty the day after tomorrow 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 pocketbook, 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.