Korolyov felt bored.

“I find nothing special the matter,” he said, addressing the mother as he went out of the bedroom.  “If your daughter is being attended by the factory doctor, let him go on attending her.  The treatment so far has been perfectly correct, and I see no reason for changing your doctor.  Why change?  It’s such an ordinary trouble; there’s nothing seriously wrong.”

He spoke deliberately as he put on his gloves, while Madame Lyalikov stood without moving, and looked at him with her tearful eyes.

“I have half an hour to catch the ten o’clock train,” he said.  “I hope I am not too late.”

“And can’t you stay?” she asked, and tears trickled down her cheeks again.  “I am ashamed to trouble you, but if you would be so good . . . .  For God’s sake,” she went on in an undertone, glancing towards the door, “do stay to-night with us!  She is all I have . . . my only daughter. . . .  She frightened me last night; I can’t get over it. . . .  Don’t go away, for goodness’ sake! . . .”

He wanted to tell her that he had a great deal of work in Moscow, that his family were expecting him home; it was disagreeable to him to spend the evening and the whole night in a strange house quite needlessly; but he looked at her face, heaved a sigh, and began taking off his gloves without a word.

All the lamps and candles were lighted in his honour in the drawing-room and the dining-room.  He sat down at the piano and began turning over the music.  Then he looked at the pictures on the walls, at the portraits.  The pictures, oil-paintings in gold frames, were views of the Crimea—­a stormy sea with a ship, a Catholic monk with a wineglass; they were all dull, smooth daubs, with no trace of talent in them.  There was not a single good-looking face among the portraits, nothing but broad cheekbones and astonished-looking eyes.  Lyalikov, Liza’s father, had a low forehead and a self-satisfied expression; his uniform sat like a sack on his bulky plebeian figure; on his breast was a medal and a Red Cross Badge.  There was little sign of culture, and the luxury was senseless and haphazard, and was as ill fitting as that uniform.  The floors irritated him with their brilliant polish, the lustres on the chandelier irritated him, and he was reminded for some reason of the story of the merchant who used to go to the baths with a medal on his neck. . . .

He heard a whispering in the entry; some one was softly snoring.  And suddenly from outside came harsh, abrupt, metallic sounds, such as Korolyov had never heard before, and which he did not understand now; they roused strange, unpleasant echoes in his soul.

“I believe nothing would induce me to remain here to live . . .” he thought, and went back to the music-books again.

“Doctor, please come to supper!” the governess called him in a low voice.

He went into supper.  The table was large and laid with a vast number of dishes and wines, but there were only two to supper:  himself and Christina Dmitryevna.  She drank Madeira, ate rapidly, and talked, looking at him through her pince-nez: