That whole day was for Akaky the most triumphant of festivals. He walked in the consciousness that he had an overcoat upon his shoulders, and more than once he smiled at the secret pleasure of it. In the department all observed at once his new coat. They surrounded him, congratulated him, and would have it that the new overcoat must be christened, and that he must at the least give a whole evening's party. A certain assistant to the head clerk, wishing to show that he was no proud man, even invited the company to his own name-day that very night. Akaky was at first confused, but there was no refusing, and he set out in the evening. The first half of the way he passed through brilliant, lighted streets; but as he drew near the quarter where his host lived, the streets grew more deserted and dim. At his host's, the rooms were full of light and talk; there was whist, and tea, and thin slices of bread and butter, and much merriment over the christening of the new overcoat. For once in his life Akaky felt gay; he even drank two glasses of champagne, and toward evening's end everything seemed brighter than before. He stayed late; it was past midnight when he set off home. He came at length to where the street broke off into an endless square, whose farther side was scarcely to be seen, and which looked to him like a fearful desert. Far off, God knows where, a little light glimmered in some sentry-box that seemed to stand at the world's edge. The houses on either hand stood dark and shuttered; not a living soul was to be met; only the snow gleamed faintly, and the wind moaned in the desolate street. Akaky's gaiety grew somehow less. He stepped into the square not without dread, as though his heart foreboded some evil.