For a few moments there was complete silence, so that one could plainly hear a night-moth desperately beating against the window-pane. Peter Ilitsch shook his head mournfully, and his drink-besotted visage drooped towards the stained, dirty newspaper. Sanine smiled again. This perpetual smile irritated and yet fascinated Yourii. “What clear eyes he has!” thought he. Suddenly Sanine rose, opened the window, and let out the moth. A wave of cool, pleasant air, as from soft wings, swept through the room. “Yes,” said Ivanoff, in answer to his own thought, “there are no two men alike, so, on the strength of that, let’s have another drink.” “No,” said Yourii, shaking his head, “I won’t have any more.” “Eh—why not?” “I never drink much.” The vodka and the heat had made his head ache. He longed to get out into the fresh air. “I must be going,” he said, getting up. “Where? Come on, have another drink!” “No really, I ought to—” stammered Yourii, looking for his cap. “Well, good-bye!” As Yourii shut the door he heard Sanine saying to Ilitsch, “Of course you’re not like children; they can’t distinguish good from bad; they are simple and natural; and that is why they—” Then the door was closed, and all was still. High in the heavens shone the moon, and the cool night-air touched Yourii’s brow. All seemed beautiful and romantic, and as he walked through the quiet moonlit streets the thought to him was dreadful that in some dark, silent chamber Semenoff lay on a table, yellow and stiff. Yet, somehow, Yourii could not recall those grievous thoughts that had recently oppressed him, and had shrouded the whole world in gloom. His mood was now of one tranquil sadness, and he felt impelled to gaze at the moon. As he crossed a white deserted square he suddenly thought of Sanine. “What sort of man is that?” he asked himself. Annoyed to think that there was a man whom he, Yourii, could not instantly define, he felt a certain malicious pleasure in disparaging him. “A phrase-maker, that’s all he is! Formerly the fellow posed as a pessimist, disgusted with life and bent upon airing impossible views of his own; now, he’s trifling with animalism.” From Sanine Yourii’s thoughts reverted to himself. He came to the conclusion that he trifled with nothing but that his thoughts, his sufferings, his whole personality, were original, and quite different from those of other men. This was most agreeable; yet something seemed to be missing. Once more he thought of Semenoff. It was grievous to know that he should never set eyes upon him again, and though he had never felt any affection for Semenoff, he now had become near and dear to him. Tears rose to his eyes. He pictured the dead student lying in the grave, a mass of corruption, and he remembered these words of his: “You’ll be living, and breathing this air, and enjoying this moonlight, and you’ll go past my grave where I lie.”