Ivan Matveyitch, waiting while the other cogitates, sits and, craning his neck, puts the collar of his shirt to rights.  His tie will not set properly, the stud has come out, and the collar keeps coming apart.

“H’m! . . .” says the man of learning.  “Well, haven’t you found a job yet, Ivan Matveyitch?”

“No.  And how is one to find one?  I am thinking, you know, of volunteering for the army.  But my father advises my going into a chemist’s.”

“H’m! . . .  But it would be better for you to go into the university.  The examination is difficult, but with patience and hard work you could get through.  Study, read more. . . .  Do you read much?”

“Not much, I must own . . .” says Ivan Matveyitch, lighting a cigarette.

“Have you read Turgenev?”

“N-no. . . .”

“And Gogol?”

“Gogol.  H’m! . . .  Gogol. . . .  No, I haven’t read him!”

“Ivan Matveyitch!  Aren’t you ashamed?  Aie! aie!  You are such a nice fellow, so much that is original in you . . . you haven’t even read Gogol!  You must read him!  I will give you his works!  It’s essential to read him!  We shall quarrel if you don’t!”

Again a silence follows.  The man of learning meditates, half reclining on a soft lounge, and Ivan Matveyitch, leaving his collar in peace, concentrates his whole attention on his boots.  He has not till then noticed that two big puddles have been made by the snow melting off his boots on the floor.  He is ashamed.

“I can’t get on to-day . . .” mutters the man of learning.  “I suppose you are fond of catching birds, too, Ivan Matveyitch?”

“That’s in autumn, . . .  I don’t catch them here, but there at home I always did.”

“To be sure . . . very good.  But we must write, though.”

The man of learning gets up resolutely and begins dictating, but after ten lines sits down on the lounge again.

“No. . . .  Perhaps we had better put it off till to-morrow morning,” he says.  “Come to-morrow morning, only come early, at nine o’clock.  God preserve you from being late!”

Ivan Matveyitch lays down his pen, gets up from the table and sits in another chair.  Five minutes pass in silence, and he begins to feel it is time for him to go, that he is in the way; but in the man of learning’s study it is so snug and light and warm, and the impression of the nice rusks and sweet tea is still so fresh that there is a pang at his heart at the mere thought of home.  At home there is poverty, hunger, cold, his grumbling father, scoldings, and here it is so quiet and unruffled, and interest even is taken in his tarantulas and birds.

The man of learning looks at his watch and takes up a book.

“So you will give me Gogol?’ says Ivan Matveyitch, getting up.

“Yes, yes!  But why are you in such a hurry, my dear boy?  Sit down and tell me something . . .”