When he went into his apartment, he gaped with astonishment. He was amazed at the wealth and luxury with which Bugrov had surrounded himself. Velvet hangings, fearfully expensive chairs.⁠ ⁠… One was positively ashamed to step on the carpet. Groholsky had seen many rich men in his day, but he had never seen such frenzied luxury.⁠ ⁠… And the higgledy-piggledy muddle he saw when, with an inexplicable tremor, he walked into the drawing room⁠—plates with bits of bread on them were lying about on the grand piano, a glass was standing on a chair, under the table there was a basket with a filthy rag in it.⁠ ⁠… Nut shells were strewn about in the windows. Bugrov himself was not quite in his usual trim when Groholsky walked in.⁠ ⁠… With a red face and uncombed locks he was pacing about the room in deshabille, talking to himself, apparently much agitated. Mishutka was sitting on the sofa there in the drawing room, and was making the air vibrate with a piercing scream.

“It’s awful, Grigory Vassilyevitch!” Bugrov began on seeing Groholsky, “such disorder⁠ ⁠… such disorder⁠ ⁠… Please sit down. You must excuse my being in the costume of Adam and Eve.⁠ ⁠… It’s of no consequence.⁠ ⁠… Horrible disorderliness! I don’t understand how people can exist here, I don’t understand it! The servants won’t do what they are told, the climate is horrible, everything is expensive.⁠ ⁠… Stop your noise,” Bugrov shouted, suddenly coming to a halt before Mishutka; “stop it, I tell you! Little beast, won’t you stop it?”

And Bugrov pulled Mishutka’s ear.

“That’s revolting, Ivan Petrovitch,” said Groholsky in a tearful voice. “How can you treat a tiny child like that? You really are⁠ ⁠…”

“Let him stop yelling then.⁠ ⁠… Be quiet⁠—I’ll whip you!”