patch began to move, to grow less, to disappear . . . and in its place, in the doorway appeared a woman's figure. Aratov looked intently at it . . . Clara! And this time she was looking straight at him, coming towards him. . . . On her head was a wreath of red roses. . . . He was all in agitation, he sat up. . . .
Before him stood his aunt in a nightcap adorned with a broad red ribbon, and in a white dressing-jacket.
'Platosha!' he said with an effort. 'Is that you?'
'Yes, it's I,' answered Platonida Ivanovna . . . 'I, Yasha darling, yes.'
'What have you come for?'
'You waked me up. At first you kept moaning as it were . . . and then you cried out all of a sudden, "Save me! help me!"'
'I cried out?'
'Yes, and such a hoarse cry, "Save me!" I thought, Mercy on us ! He 's never ill, is he? And I came in. Are you quite well?'
'Perfectly well.'
'Well, you must have had a bad dream then. Would you like me to burn a little incense?'
Aratov once more stared intently at his aunt, and laughed aloud. . . . The figure of the good old lady in her nightcap and dressing-jacket, with her long face and scared expression, was
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