ing
chimney-sweep.

"Doctor, may I have coffee to-day?" asks Lizotchka.

"You may."

"And may I get up?"

"You might, perhaps, but . . . you had better lie in bed another
day."

"She is awfully depressed," Vassya whispers in his ear, "such gloomy
thoughts, such pessimism. I am dreadfully uneasy about her."

The doctor sits down to the little table, and rubbing his forehead,
prescribes bromide of potassium for Lizotchka, then makes his bow,
and promising to look in again in the evening, departs. Vassya does
not go to the office, but sits all day at his wife's feet.

At midday the admirers of her talent arrive in a crowd. They are
agitated and alarmed, they bring masses of flowers and French novels.
Lizotchka, in a snow-white cap and a light dressing jacket, lies
in bed with an enigmatic look, as though she did not believe in her
own recovery. The admirers of her talent see her husband, but readily
forgive his presence: they and he are united by one calamity at
that bedside!

At six o'clock in the evening Lizotchka falls asleep, and again
sleeps till two o'clock in the morning. Vassya as before sits at
her feet, struggles with drowsiness, changes her compress, plays
at being a Jew, and in the morning after a second night of suffering,
Liza is prinking before the looking-glass and putting on her hat.

"Wherever are you going, my dear?" asks Vassya, with an imploring
look at her.

"What?" says Lizotchka in wonder, assuming a scared expression,
"don't you know that there is a rehearsal to-day at Marya Lvovna's?"

After escorting her there, Vassya having nothing to do to while
away his boredom, takes his portfolio and goes to the office. His
head aches so violently from his sleepless nights that his left eye
shuts of itself and refuses to open. . . .

"What's the matter with you, my good sir?" his chief asks him. "What
is it?"

Vassy a waves his hand and sits down.

"Don't ask me, your Excellency," he says with a sigh. "What I have
suffered in these two days, what I have suffered! Liza has been
ill!"

"Good heavens," cried his chief in alarm. "Lizaveta Pavlovna, what
is wrong with her?"

Vassily Stepanovitch merely throws up his hands and raises his eyes
to the ceiling, as though he would say: "It's the will of Providence."

"Ah, my boy, I can sympathise with you with all my heart!" sighs
his chief, rolling his eyes. "I've lost my wife, my dear, I understand.
That is a loss, it is a loss! It's awful,