THREE o'clock in the morning. The soft April night is looking in at my windows and caressingly winking at me with its stars. I can't sleep, I am so happy! My whole being from head to heels is bursting with a strange, incomprehensible feeling. I can't analyse it just now - I haven't the time, I'm too lazy, and there - hang analysis! Why, is a man likely to interpret his sensations when he is flying head foremost from a belfry, or has just learned that he has won two hundred thousand? Is he in a state to do it?