He wakes and refuses the night. The feeling with Liza was an attack of womanish hysteria, pah. He has given her his address, and that can wait. What matters is Zverkov and Simonov. Anton Antonitch lends him fifteen roubles at the first asking, and while he signs the IOU he mentions, easily, that he had been keeping it up at the Hôtel de Paris with a childhood friend, a regular Lovelace, and that they drank an extra half-dozen. Then he writes to Simonov. The letter blames the first glass, begs pardon, and asks Simonov to explain him to the others, including Zverkov, whom he seemed to remember insulting as though in a dream. He admires the lightness of it, an aristocratic playfulness, the tone of a man who respects himself. Then he catches the fact. He had not drunk anything between five and six. He had lied, and he is not ashamed, because he is rid of it.
The walk that evening does not clear him. Myeshtchansky Street and the Yusupov Garden only irritate him, and he comes home as if a crime were lying on his conscience. The letter satisfied him. Liza does not. She will see how he lives. Yesterday he seemed a hero. Now there is the American leather sofa with the stuffing out, the dressing-gown that will not cover him, and Apollon, who will insult her and leave him bowing and lying. He tells himself there was real feeling in him, that her crying will have a good effect. The picture that will not leave is the match-light on her pale, distorted face, and the smile he will still see fifteen years later. By the next day he is ready to call it nerves. The refrain stays: she will come. If she were near him he would insult her, turn her out, strike her. Then he stops, confused.
After nine, when she can no longer come, the dream turns sweet. He talks to her, educates her, and she loves him while he pretends not to notice. At last she flings herself at his feet and he is her saviour. He hears himself on influence and tyranny, à la George Sand: she is his creation, his noble wife. Then it seems vulgar even to him, and he puts his tongue out at himself.
Apollon has been in the flat seven years, an elderly tailor who looks down on him and on everyone, flaxen hair oiled, mouth set like a V, in love with his own buttons. The Underground Man has meant for two years to withhold the seven roubles, to show the money and still not pay it, until Apollon comes with bowed head. He holds out, then loses his temper, drags him back, and swears on his word of honour. Apollon says there is nothing to beg pardon for, and that he can be summoned to the police-station for the insult. He is telling Apollon to fetch the officer, and Apollon is laughing with a needle in his hand, when the passage door opens. A figure stands there. He glances, nearly swoons, and rushes to the wall with both hands in his hair. Two minutes later Apollon announces, sarcastic, that some woman is asking for him, and lets Liza in. The clock wheezes and strikes seven.
