ace again: he had had a cut on the inner side of
the upper lip, but that, too, had healed. The swelling on his face had
lasted all the week simply because the invalid would not have a doctor,
and instead of having the swelling lanced had waited for it to go down.
He would not hear of a doctor, and would scarcely allow even his mother
to come near him, and then only for a moment, once a day, and only at
dusk, after it was dark and before lights had been brought in. He did
not receive Pyotr Stepanovitch either, though the latter ran round to
Varvara Petrovna's two or three times a day so long as he remained in
the town. And now, at last, returning on the Monday morning after his
three days' absence, Pyotr Stepanovitch made a circuit of the town,
and, after dining at Yulia Mihailovna's, came at last in the evening to
Varvara Petrovna, who was impatiently expecting him. The interdict had
been removed, Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch was "at home." Varvara Petrovna
herself led the visitor to the door of the study; she had long looked
forward to their meeting, and Pyotr Stepanovitch had promised to run
to her and repeat what passed. She knocked timidly at Nikolay
Vsyevolodovitch's door, and getting no answer ventured to open the door
a couple of inches.

"Nicolas, may I bring Pyotr Stepanovitch in to see you?" she asked, in a
soft and restrained voice, trying to make out her son's face behind the
lamp.

"You can--you can, of course you can," Pyotr Stepanovitch himself cried
out, loudly and gaily. He opened the door with his hand and went in.

Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch had not heard the knock at the door, and only
caught his mother's timid question, and had not had time to answer it.
Before him, at that moment, there lay a letter he had just read over,
which he was pondering deeply. He started, hearing Pyotr Stepanovitch's
sudden outburst, and hurriedly put the letter under a paper-weight,
but did not quite succeed; a corner of the letter and almost the whole
envelope showed.

"I called out on purpose that you might be prepared," Pyotr Stepanovitch
said hurriedly, with surprising naivete, running up to the table, and
instantly staring at the corner of the letter, which peeped out from
beneath the paper-weight.

"And no doubt you had time to see how I hid the letter I had just
received, under the paper-weight," said Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch calmly,
without moving from his place.

"A letter? Bless you and your letters, what are they