“Where have you been hiding, damn you?” The master sprang upon him with clenched fists. “Where have you been just now? Go away and tell them to send the carriage round for this gentleman, and get the brougham ready for me. Wait,” he called out as the footman turned to go. “Not a single traitor remains to-morrow. Pack off all of you! I will engage new ones ... Rabble!” While they waited Aboguin and the doctor were silent. Already the expression of satisfaction and the subtle elegance had returned to the former. He paced the drawing-room, shook his head elegantly and evidently was planning something. His anger was not yet cool, but he tried to make as if he did not notice his enemy.... The doctor stood with one hand on the edge of the table, looking at Aboguin with that deep, rather cynical, ugly contempt with which only grief and an unjust lot can look, when they see satiety and elegance before them. A little later, when the doctor took his seat in the carriage and drove away, his eyes still glanced contemptuously. It was dark, much darker than an hour ago. The red half-moon had now disappeared behind the little hill, and the clouds which watched it lay in dark spots round the stars. The brougham with the red lamps began to rattle on the road and passed the doctor. It was Aboguin on his way to protest, to commit all manner of folly. All the way the doctor thought not of his wife or Andrey, but only of Aboguin and those who lived in the house he just left. His thoughts were unjust, inhuman, and cruel. He passed sentence on Aboguin, his wife, Papchinsky, and all those who live in rosy semi-darkness and smell of scent. All the way he hated them, and his heart ached with his contempt for them. The conviction he formed about them would last his life long. Time will pass and Kirilov’s sorrow, but this conviction, unjust and unworthy of the human heart, will not pass, but will remain in the doctor’s mind until the grave. A TRIFLING OCCURRENCE Nicolai Ilyich Byelyaev, a Petersburg landlord, very fond of the racecourse, a well fed, pink young man of about thirty-two, once called towards evening on Madame Irnin--Olga Ivanovna--with whom he had a _liaison,_ or, to use his own phrase, spun out a long and tedious romance. And indeed the first pages of this romance, pages of interest and inspiration, had been read long ago; now they dragged on and on, and presented neither novelty nor interest. Finding that Olga Ivanovna was not at home, my hero lay down a moment on the drawing-room sofa and began to wait. “Good evening, Nicolai Ilyich,” he suddenly heard a child’s voice say. “Mother will be in in a moment. She’s gone to the dressmaker’s with Sonya.”