generous, leonine; he walked with his head erect and his chest squared, he spoke in an agreeable baritone, and there was a shade of refined almost feminine elegance in the manner in which he took off his scarf and smoothed his hair.  Even his paleness and the childlike terror with which he looked up at the stairs as he took off his coat did not detract from his dignity nor diminish the air of sleekness, health, and aplomb which characterized his whole figure.

“There is nobody and no sound,” he said going up the stairs.  “There is no commotion.  God grant all is well.”

He led the doctor through the hall into a big drawing-room where there was a black piano and a chandelier in a white cover; from there they both went into a very snug, pretty little drawing-room full of an agreeable, rosy twilight.

“Well, sit down here, doctor, and I . . . will be back directly.  I will go and have a look and prepare them.”

Kirilov was left alone.  The luxury of the drawing-room, the agreeably subdued light and his own presence in the stranger’s unfamiliar house, which had something of the character of an adventure, did not apparently affect him.  He sat in a low chair and scrutinized his hands, which were burnt with carbolic.  He only caught a passing glimpse of the bright red lamp-shade and the violoncello case, and glancing in the direction where the clock was ticking he noticed a stuffed wolf as substantial and sleek-looking as Abogin himself.

It was quiet. . . .  Somewhere far away in the adjoining rooms someone uttered a loud exclamation: 

“Ah!” There was a clang of a glass door, probably of a cupboard, and again all was still.  After waiting five minutes Kirilov left off scrutinizing his hands and raised his eyes to the door by which Abogin had vanished.

In the doorway stood Abogin, but he was not the same as when he had gone out.  The look of sleekness and refined elegance had disappeared —­his face, his hands, his attitude were contorted by a revolting expression of something between horror and agonizing physical pain.  His nose, his lips, his moustache, all his features were moving and seemed trying to tear themselves from his face, his eyes looked as though they were laughing with agony. . . .

Abogin took a heavy stride into the drawing-room, bent forward, moaned, and shook his fists.

“She has deceived me,” he cried, with a strong emphasis on the second syllable of the verb.  “Deceived me, gone away.  She fell ill and sent me for the doctor only to run away with that clown Paptchinsky!  My God!”

Abogin took a heavy step towards the doctor, held out his soft white fists in his face, and shaking them went on yelling: 

“Gone away!  Deceived me!  But why this deception?  My God!  My God!  What need of this dirty, scoundrelly trick, this diabolical, snakish farce?  What have I done to her?  Gone away!”

Tears gushed from his eyes.  He turned on one foot and began pacing up and down the drawing-room.  Now in his short coat, his fashionable narrow trousers which made his legs look disproportionately slim, with his big head and long mane he was extremely like a lion.  A gleam of curiosity came into the apathetic face of the doctor.  He got up and looked at Abogin.