n his life, he had lost consciousness, and could
remember nothing of Vladimir's putting him to bed.

By the time he entered the little dining-room, where the samovar already
hissed upon that cosey table, to which he had sat down upon so many
joyous, care-free mornings, the light in his eyes was softer, the new
lines in his face less rigidly fixed. He was remembering, bit by bit,
the details of his recent talk with de Windt, who, heart-broken over
Ivan's double ruin, and showing far more emotion than Michael's son
himself, had fairly gone upon his knees to his friend, begging him to
share his private fortune, and swearing that he should challenge every
officer in the army who uttered one word against their recent comrade.
Ivan remembered with relief how, even under the influence of nearly a
quart of _vodka_, he had gently refused Vladimir's generosity. From the
very beginning, when, in his numbness, the future had been still
unimaginable, Ivan's course had appeared perfectly clear to him. Cast
out on all sides, by friends and family alike, he would be beholden to
no one in the world. Starve he could, without a murmur, if he did not
find work. But charity--to the amount of one kopeck, one meal, even so
much as a cup of water!--he would accept from no man: no, not from
Vladimir de Windt, though he felt towards him as towards a brother.
Moreover, he had spent his last night in these dearly familiar rooms;
and he had accomplished the difficult task of putting his friend away
from him without rousing that friend's antagonism. So much Ivan had
decided, before, as he sat sipping his first cup of tea, de Windt
appeared, starting to see his comrade in civilian's dress. Ivan saw that
start, and understood it; but his voice betrayed no emotion as the
customary good-mornings passed between them, and de Windt, seating
himself and beginning to prepare his tea, said, quietly:

"Ivan Mikhailovitch, you have not told me how you are going to begin in
the work you were talking of last night. How are you to get a
start?--It's not very paying at best: the least lucrative of all the
arts--because it's the highest, I suppose. Now, old fellow, I
understand your general stand; but, for Heaven's sake, don't hurt me by
refusing to let me _lend_ you a rouble or two, till you get
started--have made a little headway, you know!"

Ivan looked up, seriously: "Thank you, my friend. I'm sorry, but even
that I can't take. It'll be no easier, starting in