And he looked at himself with suspicion.
Foma liked to be on the Exchange amid the bustle and talk of the sedate people who were making deals amounting to thousands of roubles; the respect with which the less well-to-do tradesmen greeted and spoke to him--to Foma, the son of the millionaire--flattered him greatly.

He felt happy and proud whenever he successfully managed some part of his father's business, assuming all responsibility on his own shoulders, and received a smile of approval from his father for it.

There was in him a great deal of ambition, yearning to appear as a grown-up man of business, but--just as before his trip to Perm--he lived as in solitude; he still felt no longing for friends, although he now came in contact everyday with the merchants' sons of his age.

They had invited him more than once to join them in their sprees, but he rather rudely and disdainfully declined their invitations and even laughed at them.
"I am afraid.

Your fathers may learn of your sprees, and as they'll give you a drubbing, I might also come in for a share." What he did not like in them was that they were leading a dissipated and depraved life, without their fathers' knowledge, and that the money they were spending was either stolen from their parents or borrowed on long-termed promissory notes, to be paid with exorbitant interest.
They in turn did not like him for this very reserve and aversion, which contained the pride so offensive to them.