Mitya was jumping up with the obvious intention of delivering another tirade, but the words did not come.
“Let’s drink, panie ,” he blurted out instead of making a speech. Everyone laughed.
“Good heavens! I thought he was going to begin again!” Grushenka exclaimed nervously. “Do you hear, Mitya,” she went on insistently, “don’t prance about, but it’s nice you’ve brought the champagne. I want some myself, and I can’t bear liqueurs. And best of all, you’ve come yourself. We were fearfully dull here. … You’ve come for a spree again, I suppose? But put your money in your pocket. Where did you get such a lot?”
Mitya had been, all this time, holding in his hand the crumpled bundle of notes on which the eyes of all, especially of the Poles, were fixed. In confusion he thrust them hurriedly into his pocket. He flushed. At that moment the innkeeper brought in an uncorked bottle of champagne, and glasses on a tray. Mitya snatched up the bottle, but he was so bewildered that he