looking round as though some one had called him. And what had become of his rosy colour? It seemed covered over by a layer of earth. 'Are you still unwell?' I asked him.
'No, I'm all right,' he answered abruptly.
'Are you dull?'
'Why should I be dull?' But he turned away and would not look me in the face.
'Or is it that wretchedness come over you again?' To this he made no reply. So passed another twenty-four hours.
Next day my aunt ran into my room in a state of great excitement, declaring that she would leave the house with her niece, if Misha was to remain in it.
'Why so?'
'Why, we are dreadfully scared with him. . . . He's not a man, he's a wolf,—nothing better than a wolf. He keeps moving and moving about, and doesn't speak—and looks so wild. . . . He almost gnashes his teeth at me. My Katia, you know, is so nervous. . . . She was so struck with him the first day. . . . I'm in terror for her, and indeed for myself too.' . . . I didn't know what to say to my aunt. I couldn't, anyway, turn Misha out, after inviting him.
He relieved me himself from my difficult position. The same day,—I was still sitting in my own room,—suddenly I heard behind me a husky and angry voice: 'Nikolai Nikolaitch,
33
