“I have come on business, colleague.  I have come to ask you whether you would not join me in a consultation.  Eh?”

Thinking that Hobotov wanted to distract his mind with an outing, or perhaps really to enable him to earn something, Andrey Yefimitch put on his coat and hat, and went out with him into the street.  He was glad of the opportunity to smooth over his fault of the previous day and to be reconciled, and in his heart thanked Hobotov, who did not even allude to yesterday’s scene and was evidently sparing him.  One would never have expected such delicacy from this uncultured man.

“Where is your invalid?” asked Andrey Yefimitch.

“In the hospital. . . .  I have long wanted to show him to you.  A very interesting case.”

They went into the hospital yard, and going round the main building, turned towards the lodge where the mental cases were kept, and all this, for some reason, in silence.  When they went into the lodge Nikita as usual jumped up and stood at attention.

“One of the patients here has a lung complication.”  Hobotov said in an undertone, going into the yard with Andrey Yefimitch.  “You wait here, I’ll be back directly.  I am going for a stethoscope.”

And he went away.

XVII

It was getting dusk.  Ivan Dmitritch was lying on his bed with his face thrust unto his pillow; the paralytic was sitting motionless, crying quietly and moving his lips.  The fat peasant and the former sorter were asleep.  It was quiet.

Andrey Yefimitch sat down on Ivan Dmitritch’s bed and waited.  But half an hour passed, and instead of Hobotov, Nikita came into the ward with a dressing-gown, some underlinen, and a pair of slippers in a heap on his arm.

“Please change your things, your honour,” he said softly.  “Here is your bed; come this way,” he added, pointing to an empty bedstead which had obviously recently been brought into the ward.  “It’s all right; please God, you will recover.”

Andrey Yefimitch understood it all.  Without saying a word he crossed to the bed to which Nikita pointed and sat down; seeing that Nikita was standing waiting, he undressed entirely and he felt ashamed.  Then he put on the hospital clothes; the drawers were very short, the shirt was long, and the dressing-gown smelt of smoked fish.

“Please God, you will recover,” repeated Nikita, and he gathered up Andrey Yefimitch’s clothes into his arms, went out, and shut the door after him.

“No matter . . .” thought Andrey Yefimitch, wrapping himself in his dressing-gown in a shamefaced way and feeling that he looked like a convict in his new costume.  “It’s no matter. . . .  It does not matter whether it’s a dress-coat or a uniform or this dressing-gown.”