She had her plan already prepared. She approached the dentist’s door. She would run up the stairs, with a laugh, fly into his private room and ask for twenty-five roubles.... But when she took hold of the bell-pull, the plan went clean out of her head. Vanda suddenly began to be afraid and agitated, a thing which had never happened to her before. She was never anything but bold and independent in drunken company; but now, dressed in common clothes, and just like any ordinary person begging a favour, she felt timid and humble. “Perhaps he has forgotten me...” she thought, not daring to pull the bell. “And how can I go up to him in a dress like this? As if I were a pauper, or a dowdy respectable...” She rang the bell irresolutely. There were steps behind the door. It was the porter. “Is the doctor at home?” she asked. She would have been very pleased now if the porter had said “No,” but instead of answering he showed her into the hall, and took her jacket. The stairs seemed to her luxurious and magnificent, but what she noticed first of all in all the luxury was a large mirror in which she saw a ragged creature without an elaborate hat, without a modish jacket, and without a pair of brown shoes. And Vanda found it strange that, now that she was poorly dressed and looking more like a seamstress or a washerwoman, for the first time she felt ashamed, and had no more assurance or boldness left. In her thoughts she began to call herself Nastya Kanavkina, instead of Vanda as she used. “This way, please!” said the maid-servant, leading her to the private room. “The doctor will be here immediately.... Please, take a seat.” Vanda dropped into an easy chair. “I’ll say: ‘Lend me ...’” she thought. “That’s the right thing, because we are acquainted. But the maid must go out of the room.... It’s awkward in front of the maid.... What is she standing there for?” In five minutes the door opened and Finkel entered--a tall, swarthy, convert Jew, with fat cheeks and goggle-eyes. His cheeks, eyes, belly, fleshy hips--were all so full, repulsive, and coarse! At the _Renaissance_ and the German club he used always to be a little drunk, to spend a lot of money on women, patiently put up with all their tricks--for instance, when Vanda poured the beer on his head, he only smiled and shook his finger at her--but now he looked dull and sleepy; he had the pompous, chilly expression of a superior, and he was chewing something. “What is the matter?” he asked, without looking at Vanda. Vanda glanced at the maid’s serious face, at the blown-out figure of Finkel, who obviously did not recognise her, and she blushed. “What’s the matter?” the dentist repeated, irritated. “To ... oth ache....” whispered Vanda. “Ah ... which tooth ... where?” Vanda remembered she had a tooth with a hole. “At the bottom ... to the right,” she said. “H’m ... open your mouth.” Finkel frowned, held his breath, and began to work the aching tooth loose.