As he thought of the last fact Paul stopped in his tracks, as though shot; blushed, and almost cried for very shame! At this very moment he was unfortunate enough to lose his footing on the slippery pavement, and to go head-first into a snow-heap. As he stood shaking himself dry, a whole troop of dogs, which had long trotted barking at his heels, flew at him. One of them, a wretched little half-starved beast, went so far as to fix her teeth into his fur coat and hang therefrom. Swearing and striking out, Paul cleared his way out of the yelping pack at last, in a fury, and with rent clothes; and making his way as fast as he could to the corner of the street, discovered that he hadn’t the slightest idea where he was. He walked up lanes, and down streets, and round corners, and lost himself more and more hopelessly; also his temper. “The devil take all these confounded exalted ideas!” he growled, half aloud; “and the archfiend take every one of you, you and your Guadalquivers and humbug!” Mosgliakoff was not in a pretty humour at this moment. At last, tired and horribly angry, after two hours of walking, he reached the door of Maria Alexandrovna’s house. Observing a host of carriages standing outside, he paused to consider. “Surely she has not a party to-night!” he thought, “and if she has, _why_ has she a party?” He inquired of the servants, and found out that Maria Alexandrovna had been out of town, and had fetched up Afanassy Matveyevitch, gorgeous in his dress-suit and white tie. He learned, further, that the prince was awake, but had not as yet made his appearance in the “salon.” On receiving this information, Paul Mosgliakoff said not a word, but quietly made his way upstairs to his uncle’s room. He was in that frame of mind in which a man determines to commit some desperate act, out of revenge, aware at the time, and wide awake to the fact that he is about to do the deed, but forgetting entirely that he may very likely regret it all his life afterwards! Entering the prince’s room, he found that worthy seated before the glass, with a perfectly bare head, but with whiskers and napoleon stuck on. His wig was in the hands of his old and grey valet, his favourite Ivan Pochomitch, and the latter was gravely and thoughtfully combing it out. As for the prince, he was indeed a pitiable object! He was not half awake yet, for one thing; he sat as though he were still dazed with sleep; he kept opening and shutting his mouth, and stared at Mosgliakoff as though he did not know him! “Well, how are you, uncle?” asked Mosgliakoff. “What, it’s you, is it!” said the prince. “Ye—yes; I’ve been as—leep a little while! Oh, heavens!” he cried suddenly, with great animation, “why, I’ve got no wi—ig on!” “Oh, never mind that, uncle; I’ll help you on with it, if you like!”