ething very
important, had left something undone, had neglected to call in
somebody--and whom, she did not know.

"Lizanka, you are crying again . . . again," she said, hugging her
daughter to her. "My own, my darling, my child, tell me what it is!
Have pity on me! Tell me."

Both wept bitterly. Korolyov sat down on the side of the bed and
took Liza's hand.

"Come, give over; it's no use crying," he said kindly. "Why, there
is nothing in the world that is worth those tears. Come, we won't
cry; that's no good. . . ."

And inwardly he thought:

"It's high time she was married. . . ."

"Our doctor at the factory gave her kalibromati," said the governess,
"but I notice it only makes her worse. I should have thought that
if she is given anything for the heart it ought to be drops. . . .
I forget the name. . . . Convallaria, isn't it?"

And there followed all sorts of details. She interrupted the doctor,
preventing his speaking, and there was a look of effort on her face,
as though she supposed that, as the woman of most education in the
house, she was duty bound to keep up a conversation with the doctor,
and on no other subject but medicine.

Korolyov felt bored.

"I find nothing special the matter," he said, addressing the mother
as he went out of the bedroom. "If your daughter is being attended
by the factory doctor, let him go on attending her. The treatment
so far has been perfectly correct, and I see no reason for changing
your doctor. Why change? It's such an ordinary trouble; there's
nothing seriously wrong."

He spoke deliberately as he put on his gloves, while Madame Lyalikov
stood without moving, and looked at him with her tearful eyes.

"I have half an hour to catch the ten o'clock train," he said. "I
hope I am not too late."

"And can't you stay?" she asked, and tears trickled down her cheeks
again. "I am ashamed to trouble you, but if you would be so good
. . . . For God's sake," she went on in an undertone, glancing towards
the door, "do stay to-night with us! She is all I have . . . my
only daughter. . . . She frightened me last night; I can't get over
it. . . . Don't go away, for goodness' sake! . . ."

He wanted to tell her that he had a great deal of work in Moscow,
that his family were expecting him home; it was disagreeable to him
to spend the evening and the whole night in a strange house quite
needlessly; but he looked at her face, heaved a sigh, and began
taking off his gloves withou