Every instinct told him that there was something in Pyotr Stepanovitch's words utterly incongruous, anomalous, and grotesque, "though there's no telling what may not happen with this 'younger generation,' and the devil only knows what's going on among them," he mused, lost in perplexity.
And at this moment, to make matters worse, Blum poked his head in.

He had been waiting not far off through the whole of Pyotr Stepanovitch's visit.

This Blum was actually a distant relation of Andrey Antonovitch, though the relationship had always been carefully and timorously concealed.

I must apologise to the reader for devoting a few words here to this insignificant person.

Blum was one of that strange class of "unfortunate" Germans who are unfortunate not through lack of ability but through some inexplicable ill luck.