Asanov made me no reply, and went on passing his hand across his
forehead.

'What a set of people!' he said again; 'they've never been in any
decent society, never been acquainted with a single decent woman, while
I have here,' he cried, hurriedly pulling a pocket-book out of his
side-pocket and tapping it with his hand, 'a whole pack of letters from
a girl whom you wouldn't find the equal of in the whole world.'

Our host and the light-haired gentleman paid no attention to Asanov's
last words; they were holding each other by their buttons, and both
relating something; but I pricked up my ears.

'Oh, you 're bragging, Mr. nephew of an illustrious personage,' I said,
going up to Asanov; 'you haven't any letters at all.'

'Do you think so?' he retorted, and he looked down loftily at me;
'what's this, then?' He opened the pocket-book, and showed me about a
dozen letters addressed to him.... A familiar handwriting, I
fancied.... I feel the flush of shame mounting to my cheeks ... my
self-love is suffering horribly.... No one likes to own to a mean
action.... But there is nothing for it: when I began my story, I knew I
should have to blush to my ears in the course of it. And so, I am bound
to harden my heart and confess that....

Well, this was what passed: I took advantage of the intoxicated
condition of Asanov, who had carelessly dropped the letters on the
champagne-stained tablecloth (my own head was dizzy enough too), and
hurriedly ran my eyes over one of the letters....