“And has she suffered in this way for long?” asked Varvara Petrovna, with a slight drawl.
“Madam, I have come to thank you for the generosity you showed in the porch, in a Russian, brotherly way.”
“Brotherly?”
“I mean, not brotherly, but simply in the sense that I am my sister’s brother; and believe me, madam,” he went on more hurriedly, turning crimson again, “I am not so uneducated as I may appear at first sight in your drawing-room. My sister and I are nothing, madam, compared with the luxury we observe here. Having enemies who slander us, besides. But on the question of reputation Lebyadkin is proud, madam … and … and … and I’ve come to repay with thanks.… Here is money, madam!”
At this point he pulled out a pocket-book, drew out of it a bundle of notes, and began turning them over with trembling fingers in a perfect fury of impatience. It was evident that he was in haste to explain something, and indeed it was quite necessary to do so. But probably feeling himself that his fluster with the money made him look even more foolish, he lost the last traces of self-possession. The money refused to be counted. His fingers fumbled helplessly, and to complete his shame a green note escaped from the pocket-book, and fluttered in zigzags on to the carpet.
“Twenty roubles, madam.” He leapt up suddenly with the roll of notes in his hand, his face perspiring with discomfort. Noticing the note which had dropped on the floor, he was bending down to pick it up, but for some reason overcome by shame, he dismissed it with a wave.
“For your servants, madam; for the footman who picks it up. Let them remember my sister!”
“I cannot allow that,” Varvara Petrovna brought out hurriedly, even with some alarm.
“In that case …”
He bent down, picked it up, flushing crimson, and suddenly going up to Varvara Petrovna held out the notes he had counted.