“There are some queer types to be found,” says Mikhail Fiodorovich. “Yesterday I went to see our friend Yegor Pietrovich. There I found a student, one of your medicos, a third-year man, I think. His face ... rather in the style of Dobroliubov--the stamp of profound thought on his brow. We began to talk. ‘My dear fellow--an extraordinary business. I’ve just read that some German or other--can’t remember his name--has extracted a new alkaloid from the human brain--idiotine.’ Do you know he really believed it, and produced an expression of respect on his face, as much as to say, ‘See, what a power we are.’” “The other day I went to the theatre. I sat down. Just in front of me in the next row two people were sitting: one, ‘one of the chosen,’ evidently a law student, the other a whiskery medico. The medico was as drunk as a cobbler. Not an atom of attention to the stage. Dozing and nodding. But the moment some actor began to deliver a loud monologue, or just raised his voice, my medico thrills, digs his neighbour in the ribs. ‘What’s he say? Something noble?’ ‘Noble,’ answers ‘the chosen.’ “‘Brrravo!’ bawls the medico. ‘No--ble. Bravo.’ You see the drunken blockhead didn’t come to the theatre for art, but for something noble. He wants nobility.” Katy listens and laughs. Her laugh is rather strange. She breathes out in swift, rhythmic, and regular alternation with her inward breathing. It’s as though she were playing an accordion. Of her face, only her nostrils laugh. My heart fails me. I don’t know what to say. I lose my temper, crimson, jump up from my seat and cry: “Be quiet, won’t you? Why do you sit here like two toads, poisoning the air with your breath? I’ve had enough.” In vain I wait for them to stop their slanders. I prepare to go home. And it’s time, too. Past ten o’clock. “I’ll sit here a little longer,” says Mikhail Fiodorovich, “if you give me leave, Ekaterina Vladimirovna?” “You have my leave,” Katy answers. “_Bene._ In that case, order another bottle, please.” Together they escort me to the hall with candles in their hands. While I’m putting on my overcoat, Mikhail Fiodorovich says: “You’ve grown terribly thin and old lately. Nicolai Stiepanovich. What’s the matter with you? Ill? “Yes, a little.” “And he will not look after himself,” Katy puts in sternly. “Why don’t you look after yourself? How can you go on like this? God helps those who help themselves, my dear man. Give my regards to your family and make my excuses for not coming. One of these days, before I go abroad, I’ll come to say good-bye. Without fail. I’m off next week.”