atmosphere of the doctor's home and on the woman who was somewhere
dying. He felt this himself, and so, afraid of not being understood,
did his utmost to put softness and tenderness into his voice so
that the sincerity of his tone might prevail if his words did not.
As a rule, however fine and deep a phrase may be, it only affects
the indifferent, and cannot fully satisfy those who are happy or
unhappy; that is why dumbness is most often the highest expression
of happiness or unhappiness; lovers understand each other better
when they are silent, and a fervent, passionate speech delivered
by the grave only touches outsiders, while to the widow and children
of the dead man it seems cold and trivial.

Kirilov stood in silence. When Abogin uttered a few more phrases
concerning the noble calling of a doctor, self-sacrifice, and so
on, the doctor asked sullenly: "Is it far?"

"Something like eight or nine miles. I have capital horses, doctor!
I give you my word of honour that I will get you there and back in
an hour. Only one hour."

These words had more effect on Kirilov than the appeals to humanity
or the noble calling of the doctor. He thought a moment and said
with a sigh: "Very well, let us go!"

He went rapidly with a more certain step to his study, and afterwards
came back in a long frock-coat. Abogin, greatly relieved, fidgeted
round him and scraped with his feet as he helped him on with his
overcoat, and went out of the house with him.

It was dark out of doors, though lighter than in the entry. The