catch fish, to shoot, to walk about and have tea in the open air.  They were driving to that region of bliss in which Bugrov as a boy—­the barefoot, sunburnt, but infinitely happy son of a village deacon—­had once raced about the meadows, the woods, and the river banks.  Oh, how fiendishly seductive was that May!  How happy those who can take off their heavy uniforms, get into a carriage and fly off to the country where the quails are calling and there is the scent of fresh hay.  Bugrov’s heart ached with a sweet thrill that made him shiver.  A hundred thousand!  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.

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.