“Ye—yes, ye—yes, Nap—oleon. We talked about philosophical subjects. And do you know, my boy, I became quite sorry that the English had been so hard upon him. Of course, though, if one didn’t chain him up, he would be flying at people’s throats again! Still I’m sorry for him. Now I should have managed him quite differently. I should have put him on an uninhabited island.” “Why uninhabited, uncle?” asked Mosgliakoff, absently. “Well, well, an inhabited one, then; but the in—habitants must be good sort of people. And I should arrange all sorts of amusements for him, at the State’s charge: theatres, balle’s, and so on. And, of course, he should walk about, under proper su—pervision. Then he should have tarts (he liked tarts, you know), as many tarts as ever he pleased. I should treat him like a fa—ather; and he would end by being sorry for his sins, see if he wouldn’t!” Mosgliakoff listened absently to all this senile gabble, and bit his nails with impatience. He was anxious to turn the conversation on to the subject of marriage. He did not know quite clearly why he wished to do so, but his heart was boiling over with anger. Suddenly the old man made an exclamation of surprise. “Why, my dear boy, I declare I’ve forgotten to tell you about it. Fancy, I made an offer of marriage to-day!” “An offer of marriage, uncle?” cried Paul, brightening up. “Why, ye—yes! an offer. Pachomief, are you going? All right! Away with you! Ye—yes, _c’est une charmante personne_. But I confess, I took the step rather rash—ly. I only begin to see that now. Dear me! dear, dear me!” “Excuse me, uncle; but _when_ did you make this offer?” “Well, I admit I don’t know exactly _when_ I made it! Perhaps I dre—dreamed it; I don’t know. Dear me, how very strange it all seems!” Mosgliakoff trembled with joy: his new idea blazed forth in full developed glory. “And _whom_ did you propose to?” he asked impatiently. “The daughter of the house, my boy; that beau—tiful girl. I—I forget what they call her. Bu—but, my dear boy, you see I—I can’t possibly marry. What am I to do?” “Oh! of course, you are done for if you marry, that’s clear. But let me ask you one more question, uncle. Are you perfectly certain that you actually made her an offer of marriage?” “Ye—yes, I’m sure of it; I—I——.” “And what if you dreamed the whole thing, just as you did that you were upset out of the carriage a second time?” “Dear me! dear me! I—I really think I may have dreamed it; it’s very awkward. I don’t know how to show myself there, now. H—how could I find out, dear boy, for certain? Couldn’t I get to know by some outside way whether I really did make her an offer of ma—arriage or not? Why, just you think of my dreadful po—sition!” “Do you know, uncle, I don’t think we need trouble ourselves to find out at all.” “Why, wh—what then?” “I am convinced that you were dreaming.” “I—I think so myself, too, my dear fellow; es—pecially as I often have that sort of dream.”