his red cap, and how he and his green coat had once fallen plump off a horse into a pond.

The quadrille was soon over. Yet why had I spoken ironically of poor Karl Ivanitch? Should I, forsooth, have sunk in Sonetchka’s esteem if, on the contrary, I had spoken of him with the love and respect which I undoubtedly bore him?

The quadrille ended, Sonetchka said, “Thank you,” with as lovely an expression on her face as though I had really conferred, upon her a favour.

I was delighted. In fact I hardly knew myself for joy and could not think whence I derived such case and confidence and even daring.

“Nothing in the world can abash me now,” I thought as I wandered carelessly about the salon. “I am ready for anything.”