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"But excuse me, excuse me. It is for me to explain... how it all

happened... In my turn... though I agree with you... it is

unnecessary. But a year ago, the girl died of typhus. I remained

lodging there as before, and when my landlady moved into her

present quarters, she said to me... and in a friendly way... that

she had complete trust in me, but still, would I not give her an

I O U for one hundred and fifteen roubles, all the debt I owed

her. She said if only I gave her that, she would trust me again,

as much as I liked, and that she would never, never--those were

her own words--make use of that I O U till I could pay of

myself... and now, when I have lost my lessons and have nothing

to eat, she takes action against me. What am I to say to that?"

"All these affecting details are no business of ours." Ilya

Petrovitch interrupted rudely. "You must give a written

undertaking but as for your love affairs and all these tragic

events, we have nothing to do with that."