And for a long time Lupoyarov still babbled on in the same way, and,
as he went away, he promised to come again.

Worn out by the unexpected visit, Insarov lay down on the sofa. 'So
this,' he said, mournfully looking at Elena, 'is your younger
generation! There are plenty who show off, and give themselves airs,
while at heart they are as empty chatterboxes as that worthy.'

Elena made no reply to her husband; at that instant she was far more
concerned at Insarov's weakness than at the character of the whole
younger generation in Russia. She sat down near him, and took up some
work. He closed his eyes, and lay without moving, white and thin.
Elena glanced at his sharp profile, at his emaciated hands, and felt a
sudden pang of terror.

'Dmitri,' she began.

He started. 'Eh? Has Renditch come?'

'Not yet--but what do you think--you are in a fever, you are really
not quite well, shouldn't we send for a doctor?'

'That wretched gossip has frightened you. There's no necessity. I will
rest a little, and it will pass off. After dinner we will go out
again--somewhere.'

Two hours passed. Insarov still lay on the sofa, but he could not
sleep, though he did not open his eyes. Elena did not leave his side;
she had dropped her work upon her knee, and did not stir.