reached the university Polina waited at the gate, while
Laptev went into the office; he came back soon afterwards and handed
Polina five receipts.

"Where are you going now?" he asked.

"To Yartsev's."

"I'll come with you."

"But you'll prevent him from writing."

"No, I assure you I won't," he said, and looked at her imploringly.

She had on a black hat trimmed with crape, as though she were in
mourning, and a short, shabby coat, the pockets of which stuck out.
Her nose looked longer than it used to be, and her face looked
bloodless in spite of the cold. Laptev liked walking with her, doing
what she told him, and listening to her grumbling. He walked along
thinking about her, what inward strength there must be in this
woman, since, though she was so ugly, so angular, so restless,
though she did not know how to dress, and always had untidy hair,
and was always somehow out of harmony, she was yet so fascinating.

They went into Yartsev's flat by the back way through the kitchen,
where they were met by the cook, a clean little old woman with grey
curls; she was overcome with embarrassment, and with a honeyed smile
which made her little face look like a pie, said:

"Please walk in."

Yartsev was not at home. Polina sat down to the piano, and beginning
upon a tedious, difficult exercise, told Laptev not to hinder her.
And without distracting her attention by conversation, he sat on
one side and began turning over the pages of a "The Messenger of
Europe." After practising for two hours--it was the task she set
herself every day--she ate something in the kitchen and went out
to her lessons. Laptev read the continuation of a story, then sat
for a long time without reading and without being bored, glad to
think that he was too late for dinner at home.

"Ha, ha, ha!" came Yartsev's laugh, and he walked in with ruddy
cheeks, looking strong and healthy, wearing a new coat with bright
buttons. "Ha, ha, ha!"

The friends dined together. Then Laptev lay on the sofa while Yartsev
sat near and lighted a cigar. It got dark.

"I must be getting old," said Laptev. "Ever since my sister Nina
died, I've taken to constantly thinking of death."

They began talking of death, of the immortality of the soul, of how
nice it would be to rise again and fly off somewhere to Mars, to
be always idle and happy, and, above all, to think in a new special
way, not as on earth.

"One doesn't want to die," said Yartsev softly. "No sort