ka says languidly. "Or some anecdote
about Jews. . . ."

Vassily Stepanovitch, ready for anything if only his wife will be
cheerful and not talk about death, combs locks of hair over his
ears, makes an absurd face, and goes up to Lizotchka.

"Does your vatch vant mending?" he asks.

"It does, it does," giggles Lizotchka, and hands him her gold watch
from the little table. "Mend it."

Vassya takes the watch, examines the mechanism for a long time, and
wriggling and shrugging, says: "She can not be mended . . . in vun
veel two cogs are vanting. . . ."

This is the whole performance. Lizotchka laughs and claps her hands.

"Capital," she exclaims. "Wonderful. Do you know, Vassya, it's
awfully stupid of you not to take part in amateur theatricals! You
have a remarkable talent! You are much better than Sysunov. There
was an amateur called Sysunov who played with us in _It's My
Birthday_. A first-class comic talent, only fancy: a nose as thick
as a parsnip, green eyes, and he walks like a crane. . . . We all
roared; stay, I will show you how he walks."

Lizotchka springs out of bed and begins pacing about the floor,
barefooted and without her cap.

"A very good day to you!" she says in a bass, imitating a man's
voice. "Anything pretty? Anything new under the moon? Ha, ha, ha!"
she laughs.

"Ha, ha, ha!" Vassya seconds her. And the young pair, roaring with
laughter, forgetting the illness, chase one another about the room.
The race ends in Vassya's catching his wife by her nightgown and
eagerly showering kisses upon her. After one particularly passionate
embrace Lizotchka suddenly remembers that she is seriously ill. . . .

"What silliness!" she says, making a serious face and covering
herself with the quilt. "I suppose you have forgotten that I am
ill! Clever, I must say!"

"Sorry . . ." falters her husband in confusion.

"If my illness takes a bad turn it will be your fault. Not kind!
not good!"

Lizotchka closes her eyes and is silent. Her former languor and
expression of martyrdom return again, there is a sound of gentle
moans. Vassya changes the compress, and glad that his wife is at
home and not gadding off to her aunt's, sits meekly at her feet.
He does not sleep all night. At ten o'clock the doctor comes.

"Well, how are we feeling?" he asks as he takes her pulse. "Have
you slept?"

"Badly," Lizotchka's husband answers for her, "very badly."

The doctor walks away to the window and stares at a pass