“What do you dream?”

“All sorts of things.…”

The doctor, who did not know how to talk with weeping women or with children, stroked his burning head, and muttered:

“Never mind, poor boy, never mind.…One can’t go through life without illness.…Misha, who am I—do you know me?”

Misha did not answer.

“Does your head ache very badly?”

“Ve-ery. I keep dreaming.”

After examining him and putting a few questions to the maid who was looking after the sick child, the doctor went slowly back to the drawing-room. There it was by now dark, and Olga Ivanovna, standing by the window, looked like a silhouette.

“Shall I light up?” asked Tsvyetkov.

No answer followed. The house-fly was still brushing against the ceiling. Not a sound floated in from outside as though the whole world, like the doctor, were thinking, and could not bring itself to speak. Olga Ivanovna was not weeping now, but as before, staring at the flower-bed in profound silence. When Tsvyetkov went up to her, and through the twilight glanced at her pale face, exhausted with grief, her expression was such as he had seen before during her attacks of acute, stupefying, sick headache.

“Nikolay Trofimitch!” she addressed him, “and what do you think about a consultation?”

“Very good; I’ll arrange it to-morrow.”

From the doctor’s tone it could be easily seen that he put little faith in the benefit of a consultation. Olga Ivanovna would have asked him something else, but her sobs prevented her. Again she pressed her face into the window curtain. At that moment, the strains of a band playing at the club floated in distinctly. They could hear not only the wind instruments, but even the violins and the flutes.

“If he is in pain, why is he silent?” asked Olga Ivanovna. “All day long, not a sound, he never complains, and never cries. I know God will take the poor boy from us because we have not known how to prize him. Such a treasure!”

The band finished the march, and a minute later began playing a lively waltz for the opening of the ball.

“Good God, can nothing really be done?” moaned Olga Ivanovna. “Nikolay, you are a doctor and ought to know what to do! You must understand that I can’t bear the loss of him! I can’t survive it.”

The doctor, who did not know how to talk to weeping women, heaved a sigh, and paced slowly about the drawing-room. There followed a succession of oppressive pauses interspersed with weeping and the questions which lead to nothing. The band had already played a quadrille, a polka, and another quadrille. It got quite dark. In the adjoining room, the maid lighted the lamp; and all the while the doctor kept his hat in his hands, and seemed trying to say something. Several times Olga Ivanovna went off to her son, sat by him for half an hour, and came back again into the drawing-room; she was continually breaking into tears and lamentations. The time dragged agonisingly, and it seemed as though the evening had no end.

At midnight, when the band had played the cotillion and ceased altogether, the doctor got ready to go.