twice slowly touched the table with her finger, and looked at him. He
understood that she was promising to see him in two days, and she gave
him a quick smile when she saw he understood her. Insarov got up and
began to take leave; he felt unwell. Kurnatovsky arrived. Nikolai
Artemyevitch jumped up, raised his right hand higher than his head,
and softly dropped it into the palm of the chief secretary. Insarov
would have remained a few minutes longer, to have a look at his rival.
Elena shook her head unseen; the host did not think it necessary to
introduce them to one another, and Insarov departed, exchanging one
last look with Elena. Shubin pondered and pondered, and threw himself
into a fierce argument with Kurnatovsky on a legislative question,
about which he had not a single idea.

Insarov did not sleep all night, and in the morning he felt very ill;
he set to work, however, putting his papers into order and writing
letters, but his head was heavy and confused. At dinner time he began
to be in a fever; he could eat nothing. The fever grew rapidly worse
towards evening; he had aching pains in all his limbs, and a terrible
headache. Insarov lay down on the very little sofa on which Elena had
lately sat; he thought: 'It serves me right for going to that old
rascal,' and he tried to sleep. . . . But the illness had by now
complete mastery of him. His veins were throbbing violently, his blood
was on fire, his thoughts were flying round like birds. He sank into
forgetfulness. He lay like a man felled by a blow on his face, and
suddenly, it seemed to him, some one was softly laughing and
whispering over him: he opened his eyes with an effort, the light of
the flaring candle smote him like a knife. . . . What was it? the old
attorney was before him in an Oriental silk gown belted with a silk
handkerchief, as he had seen him the evening before. . . . 'Karolina
Vogelmeier,' muttered his toothless mouth. Insarov stared, and the