Mitya sat down on a wicker chair, before a little table, covered with a dirty dinner-napkin. Pyotr Ilyitch sat down opposite, and the champagne soon appeared, and oysters were suggested to the gentlemen. “First-class oysters, the last lot in.”
“Hang the oysters. I don't eat them. And we don't need anything,” cried Pyotr Ilyitch, almost angrily.
“There's no time for oysters,” said Mitya. “And I'm not hungry. Do you know, friend,” he said suddenly, with feeling, “I never have liked all this disorder.”
“Who does like it? Three dozen of champagne for peasants, upon my word, that's enough to make any one angry!”
“That's not what I mean. I'm talking of a higher order. There's no order in me, no higher order. But ... that's all over. There's no need to grieve about it. It's too late, damn it!
