“Tell me,” he said, “wouldn’t it be as well to send for some specialist on internal diseases from Moscow?  What do you think of it?”

The doctor sighed, shrugged his shoulders, and made a vague gesture with his hands.

It was evident that he was offended.  He was a very huffy man, prone to take offence, and always ready to suspect that people did not believe in him, that he was not recognised or properly respected, that his patients exploited him, and that his colleagues showed him ill-will.  He was always jeering at himself, saying that fools like him were only made for the public to ride rough-shod over them.

Yulia Sergeyevna lighted the lamp.  She was tired out with the service, and that was evident from her pale, exhausted face, and her weary step.  She wanted to rest.  She sat down on the sofa, put her hands on her lap, and sank into thought.  Laptev knew that he was ugly, and now he felt as though he were conscious of his ugliness all over his body.  He was short, thin, with ruddy cheeks, and his hair had grown so thin that his head felt cold.  In his expression there was none of that refined simplicity which makes even rough, ugly faces attractive; in the society of women, he was awkward, over-talkative, affected.  And now he almost despised himself for it.  He must talk that Yulia Sergeyevna might not be bored in his company.  But what about?  About his sister’s illness again?

And he began to talk about medicine, saying what is usually said.  He approved of hygiene, and said that he had long ago wanted to found a night-refuge in Moscow—­in fact, he had already calculated the cost of it.  According to his plan the workmen who came in the evening to the night-refuge were to receive a supper of hot cabbage soup with bread, a warm, dry bed with a rug, and a place for drying their clothes and their boots.

Yulia Sergeyevna was usually silent in his presence, and in a strange way, perhaps by the instinct of a lover, he divined her thoughts and intentions.  And now, from the fact that after the evening service she had not gone to her room to change her dress and drink tea, he deduced that she was going to pay some visit elsewhere.

“But I’m in no hurry with the night-refuge,” he went on, speaking with vexation and irritability, and addressing the doctor, who looked at him, as it were, blankly and in perplexity, evidently unable to understand what induced him to raise the question of medicine and hygiene.  “And most likely it will be a long time, too, before I make use of our estimate.  I fear our night-shelter will fall into the hands of our pious humbugs and philanthropic ladies, who always ruin any undertaking.”

Yulia Sergeyevna got up and held out her hand to Laptev.

“Excuse me,” she said, “it’s time for me to go.  Please give my love to your sister.”

“Ru-ru-ru-ru,” hummed the doctor.  “Ru-ru-ru-ru.”