"Do you know I think that for a weak man loneliness is the most horrible thing. It can drive him to anything." "Yes," said Klimkov in a whisper, comprehending something. He looked into the girl's face gratefully, and repeated in a louder tone, "Yes." "I knew him four years ago," Makarov recounted. Makarov's face seemed suddenly to have lengthened and dried up. His bones became visible, his eyes opened and darkened and looked firmly into the distance. "He delivered over one student, who gave us books to read, and a workingman, Tikhonov. The student was exiled, Tikhonov stayed in prison about a year, then died of typhus." "Are you afraid of spies?" Olga suddenly asked Klimkov. "Why?" Yevsey returned dully. "You started so when you saw him." Yevsey rubbing his throat vigorously answered without looking at her: "That was--because I know him, too." "Aha!" Makarov drawled, smiling. "Ah, and such a quiet fellow!" exclaimed Yakov. All now moved more closely around Klimkov as if desiring to hide him from somebody's eyes. He did not understand their exclamations, nor their movements and kind looks. He endeavored to keep quiet, fearing that against his will he would say words that would at once destroy the anxious yet pleasant half-dream of these minutes. The fresh spring evening approached quietly and benignly, softening sounds and colors. There was a red flush in the sky, and the brass instruments sang a soft pensive strain. "Well," said Makarov, "are we going to stay here, or are we going home?" "What will they give here?" asked Olga. "Chorus singing, tight-rope dancing, and all sorts of similar nonsense." They decided to go home. On the way Olga asked Klimkov: "Have you ever been in prison?" "Yes," he answered, but in an instant added, "Not for long." They took the tramway to their place of destination. Yevsey found himself in a little room with blue paper on the walls. It was close and stifling, now merry, now gloomy. Makarov played the guitar and sang songs which Yevsey had never before heard. Yakov boldly discussed everything in the world, laughing at the rich and swearing at the officials. Then he danced, filling the whole room with the tread of his feet and the cries and the whistling that accompany the dances. The guitar tinkled the measure of the dance, and Makarov encouraged Yakov with popular sayings and shouts. "Go ahead, Yasha! Heigho! Who with merriment is blessed, Frightens sorrow from his breast." Olga looked on serenely and contentedly. "Good, isn't it?" she asked Klimkov occasionally, smiling at him. Drunk with a quiet joy unknown to him Klimkov smiled in response. He forgot about himself, and felt the obstinate pricks within him only rarely, for a few seconds at a time. Before his consciousness was able to transform them into clear thought, they disappeared, without recalling his life to him.