The doctor was young himself, and still believed in science.

Bersenyev stayed the night. The people of the house seemed kind, and
even prompt directly there was some one to tell them what was to be
done. An assistant arrived, and began to carry out the medical
measures.

Towards morning Insarov revived for a few minutes, recognised
Bersenyev, asked: 'Am I ill, then?' looked about him with the
vague, listless bewilderment of a man dangerously ill, and again
relapsed into unconsciousness. Bersenyev went home, changed his
clothes, and, taking a few books along with him, he returned to
Insarov's lodgings. He made up his mind to stay there, at least for a
time. He shut in Insarov's bed with screens, and arranged a little
place for himself by the sofa. The day passed slowly and drearily.
Bersenyev did not leave the room except to get his dinner. The evening
came. He lighted a candle with a shade, and settled down to a book.
Everything was still around. Through the partition wall could be heard
suppressed whispering in the landlord's room, then a yawn, and a sigh.
Some one sneezed, and was scolded in a whisper; behind the screen was
heard the patient's heavy, uneven breathing, sometimes broken by a
short groan, and the uneasy tossing of his head on the pillow. . . .
Strange fancies came over Bersenyev. He found himself in the room of a
man whose life was hanging on a thread, the man whom, as he knew,
Elena loved. . . . He remembered that night when Shubin had overtaken
him and declared that she loved him, him, Bersenyev! And now. . . .
'What am I to do now?' he asked himself. 'Let Elena know of his
illness? Wait a little? This would be worse news for her than what I
told her once before; strange how fate makes me the go-between between
them!' He made up his mind that it was better to wait a little. His