timid and somewhat insinuating voice. "I have read all Pushkin . . ."
Ordynov looked at him absent-mindedly.
"A marvellous understanding of human passion. But first of all, let me express my gratitude. You have done so much for me by nobly instilling into me a right way of thinking."
"Upon my word . . ."
"No, let me speak; I always like to pay honour where honour is due, and I am proud that this feeling at least has found expression."
"Really, you are unfair to yourself, and I, indeed . . ."
"No, I am quite fair," Yaroslav Ilyitch replied, with extra-ordinary warmth. "What am I in comparison with you?"
"Good Heavens!"
"Yes. . . ."
Then followed silence.
"Following your advice, I have dropped many low acquaintances and have, to some extent, softened the coarseness of my manners," Yaroslav Ilyitch began again in a somewhat timid and insinuating voice. "In the time when I am free from my duties I sit for the most part at home; in the evenings I read some improving book and . . . I have only one desire, Vassily Mihalitch: to be of some little use to the fatherland. . . ."
"I have always thought you a very high-minded man, Yaroslav Ilyitch."
"You always bring balm to my spirit . . . you generous young man. . . ."
Yaroslav Ilyitch pressed Ordynov's hand warmly.
"You are drinking nothing?" he said, his enthusiasm subsiding a little.
"I can't; I'm ill."
"Ill? Yes, are you really? How long—in what way—did you come to be ill? If you like I'll speak . . . What doctor is treating you? If you like I'll speak to our parish doctor. I'll run round to him myself. He's a very skilful man!"
Yaroslav Ilyitch was already picking up his hat.
"Thank you very much. I don't go in for being doctored. I don't like doctors."
"You don't say so? One can't go on like that. But he's a very clever man," Yaroslav Ilyitch went on imploringly. "The other day—do allow me to tell you this, dear Vassily Mihalitch—the other day a poor carpenter came. 'Here,' said he, 'I hurt my hand with a tool: cure it for me. . . .' Semyon Pafnut-
