Prince Muishkin entered the courtyard, and ascended the steps. A cook with her sleeves turned up to the elbows opened the door. The visitor asked if Mr. Lebedeff were at home.
“He is in there,” said she, pointing to the salon.
The room had a blue wallpaper, and was well, almost pretentiously, furnished, with its round table, its divan, and its bronze clock under a glass shade. There was a narrow pier-glass against the wall, and a chandelier adorned with lustres hung by a bronze chain from the ceiling.
When the prince entered, Lebedeff was standing in the middle of the room, his back to the door. He was in his shirtsleeves, on account of the extreme heat, and he seemed to have just reached the peroration of his speech, and was impressively beating his breast.
His audience consisted of a youth of about fifteen years of age with a clever face, who had a book in his hand, though he was not reading; a young lady of twenty, in deep mourning, stood near him with an infant in her arms; another girl of thirteen, also in black, was laughing loudly, her mouth wide open; and on the sofa lay a handsome young man, with black hair and eyes, and a suspicion of beard and whiskers. He frequently interrupted the speaker and argued with him, to the great delight of the others.
“Lukian Timofeyovitch! Lukian Timofeyovitch! Here’s someone to see you! Look here! … a gentleman to speak to you! … Well, it’s not my fault!” and the cook turned and went away red with anger.
Lebedeff started, and at sight of the prince stood like a statue for a moment. Then he moved up to him with an ingratiating smile, but stopped short again.
“Prince! ex—ex—excellency!” he stammered. Then suddenly he ran towards the girl with the infant, a movement so unexpected by her that