I work. Katy sits on the sofa at my side. She is silent, and wraps herself up in her shawl as though she were cold. Either because she is sympathetic to me, or I because I had got used to her continual visits while she was still a little girl, her presence does not prevent me from concentrating on my work. At long intervals I ask her some question or other, mechanically, and she answers very curtly; or, for a moment’s rest, I turn towards her and watch how she is absorbed in looking through some medical review or newspaper. And then I see that the old expression of confidence in her face is there no more. Her expression now is cold, indifferent, distracted, like that of a passenger who has to wait a long while for his train. She dresses as she used--well and simply, but carelessly. Evidently her clothes and her hair suffer not a little from the sofas and hammocks on which she lies for days together. And she is not curious any more. She doesn’t ask me questions any more, as if she had experienced everything in life and did not expect to hear anything new. About four o’clock there is a sound of movement in the hall and the drawing-room. It’s Liza come back from the Conservatoire, bringing her friends with her. You can hear them playing the piano, trying their voices and giggling. Yegor is laying the table in the dining-room and making a noise with the plates. “Good-bye,” says Katy. “I shan’t go in to see your people. They must excuse me. I haven’t time. Come and see me.” When I escort her into the hall, she looks me over sternly from head to foot, and says in vexation: “You get thinner and thinner. Why don’t you take a cure? I’ll go to Sergius Fiodorovich and ask him to come. You must let him see you.” “It’s not necessary, Katy.” “I can’t understand why your family does nothing. They’re a nice lot.” She puts on her jacket with her rush. Inevitably, two or three hair-pins fall out of her careless hair on to the floor. It’s too much bother to tidy her hair now; besides she is in a hurry. She pushes the straggling strands of hair untidily under her hat and goes away. As soon as I come into the dining-room, my wife asks: “Was that Katy with you just now? Why didn’t she come to see us. It really is extraordinary....” “Mamma!” says Liza reproachfully, “If she doesn’t want to come, that’s her affair. There’s no need for us to go on our knees.” “Very well; but it’s insulting. To sit in the study for three hours, without thinking of us. But she can do as she likes.”