“What have I done wrong besides?” Sasha wondered.

He had discounted a forged note.  But all the young men he knew did the same.  Handrikov and Von Burst always forged IOU’s from their parents or friends when their allowances were not paid at the regular time, and then when they got their money from home they redeemed them before they became due.  Sasha had done the same, but had not redeemed the IOU because he had not got the money which Handrikov had promised to lend him.  He was not to blame; it was the fault of circumstances.  It was true that the use of another person’s signature was considered reprehensible; but, still, it was not a crime but a generally accepted dodge, an ugly formality which injured no one and was quite harmless, for in forging the Colonel’s signature Sasha had had no intention of causing anybody damage or loss.

“No, it doesn’t mean that I am a criminal . . .” thought Sasha.  “And it’s not in my character to bring myself to commit a crime.  I am soft, emotional. . . .  When I have the money I help the poor. . . .”

Sasha was musing after this fashion while they went on talking the other side of the door.

“But, my friends, this is endless,” the Colonel declared, getting excited.  “Suppose we were to forgive him and pay the money.  You know he would not give up leading a dissipated life, squandering money, making debts, going to our tailors and ordering suits in our names!  Can you guarantee that this will be his last prank?  As far as I am concerned, I have no faith whatever in his reforming!”

The official of the Treasury muttered something in reply; after him Ivan Markovitch began talking blandly and suavely again.  The Colonel moved his chair impatiently and drowned the other’s words with his detestable metallic voice.  At last the door opened and Ivan Markovitch came out of the study; there were patches of red on his lean shaven face.

“Come along,” he said, taking Sasha by the hand.  “Come and speak frankly from your heart.  Without pride, my dear boy, humbly and from your heart.”

Sasha went into the study.  The official of the Treasury was sitting down; the Colonel was standing before the table with one hand in his pocket and one knee on a chair.  It was smoky and stifling in the study.  Sasha did not look at the official or the Colonel; he felt suddenly ashamed and uncomfortable.  He looked uneasily at Ivan Markovitch and muttered: 

“I’ll pay it . . .  I’ll give it back. . . .”

“What did you expect when you discounted the IOU?” he heard a metallic voice.

“I . . .  Handrikov promised to lend me the money before now.”

Sasha could say no more.  He went out of the study and sat down again on the chair near the door.

He would have been glad to go away altogether at once, but he was choking with hatred and he awfully wanted to remain, to tear the Colonel to pieces, to say something rude to him.  He sat trying to think of something violent and effective to say to his hated uncle, and at that moment a woman’s figure, shrouded in the twilight, appeared at the drawing-room door.  It was the Colonel’s wife.  She beckoned Sasha to her, and, wringing her hands, said, weeping: