Why didn't I think of it before. I was so absent-minded." He recalled that he had a diary, in which he had written long ago, when he was still a student, during his first term, something liberal, very strong, free and even beautiful. He recalled clearly that evening, and his room, and the tobacco that lay scattered on the table, and the feeling of pride, enthusiasm, and delight with which he wrote down those energetic, firm lines. He would tear out those pages and send them to her—and that would settle it. She would see, she would understand—she was a sensible and noble girl. How fine! and how hungry he was!
In the hallway Mitrofan was met by his alarmed wife.
"Where were you? What happened to you? Why do you look so upset?"
And throwing off his coat quickly, he shouted:
"With you I might be still more upset! The house is full of people and yet there is nobody to sew a button on my coat. The devil knows what you are doing here. I have told you a hundred times. Sew on this button. It's disgraceful, disgraceful!"
And he walked away to his study.
"And how about dinner?"
"Later. Don't bother me! Don't follow me!"
There were many books there, many copy books, but the diary was not there. Sitting on the floor, he threw out of the lower drawer of the
