He had to sit a long time again in the dining-room drinking tea.
Ivan Petrovitch, seeing that his visitor was bored and preoccupied,
drew some notes out of his waistcoat pocket, read a funny letter
from a German steward, saying that all the ironmongery was ruined
and the plasticity was peeling off the walls.

"I expect they will give a decent dowry," thought Startsev, listening
absent-mindedly.

After a sleepless night, he found himself in a state of stupefaction,
as though he had been given something sweet and soporific to drink;
there was fog in his soul, but joy and warmth, and at the same time
a sort of cold, heavy fragment of his brain was reflecting:

"Stop before it is too late! Is she the match for you? She is spoilt,
whimsical, sleeps till two o'clock in the afternoon, while you are
a deacon's son, a district doctor. . . ."

"What of it?" he thought. "I don't care."

"Besides, if you marry her," the fragment went on, "then her relations
will make you give up the district work and live in the town."

"After all," he thought, "if it must be the town, the town it must
be. They will give a dowry; we can establish ourselves suitably."

At last Ekaterina Ivanovna came in, dressed for the ball, with a
low neck, looking fresh and pretty; and Startsev admired her so
much, and went into such ecstasies, that he could say nothing, but
simply stared at her and laughed.