her, and through the twilight glanced at her pale face, exhausted
with grief, her expression was such as he had seen before during
her attacks of acute, stupefying, sick headache.

"Nikolay Trofimitch!" she addressed him, "and what do you think
about a consultation?"

"Very good; I'll arrange it to-morrow."

From the doctor's tone it could be easily seen that he put little
faith in the benefit of a consultation. Olga Ivanovna would have
asked him something else, but her sobs prevented her. Again she
pressed her face into the window curtain. At that moment, the strains
of a band playing at the club floated in distinctly. They could
hear not only the wind instruments, but even the violins and the
flutes.

"If he is in pain, why is he silent?" asked Olga Ivanovna. "All day
long, not a sound, he never complains, and never cries. I know God
will take the poor boy from us because we have not known how to
prize him. Such a treasure!"

The band finished the march, and a minute later began playing a
lively waltz for the opening of the ball.

"Good God, can nothing really be done?" moaned Olga Ivanovna.
"Nikolay, you are a doctor and ought to know what to do! You must
understand that I can't bear the loss of him! I can't survive it."

The doctor, who did not know how to talk to weeping women, heaved
a sigh, and paced slowly about the drawing-room. There followed a
succession of oppressive pauses interspersed with weeping and the
questions which lead to nothing. The band had already played a
quadrille, a polka, and another quadrille. It got quite dark. In
the adjoining room, the maid lighted the lamp; and all the while
the doctor kept his hat in his hands, and seemed trying to say
something. Several times Olga Ivanovna went off to her son, sat by
him for half an hour, and came back again into the drawing-room;
she was continually breaking into tears and lamentations. The time
dragged agonisingly, and it seemed as though the evening had no
end.

At midnight, when the band had played the cotillion and ceased
altogether, the doctor got ready to go.

"I will come again to-morrow," he said, pressing the mother's cold
hand. "You go to bed."

After putting on his greatcoat in the passage and picking up his
walking-stick, he stopped, thought a minute, and went back into the
drawing-room.

"I'll come to-morrow, Olga," he repeated in a quivering voice. "Do
you hear?"

She did not answer, and it seemed as though grief had r