Ilya kissed him, laughed hilariously, and slapped him lightly on the shoulder: "It is a long time since we met, father. How are you?"
His father looked at him from beneath his cap, gave a feeble smile, then said after a pause: "Eh?"
Vasena answered for him: "You may well ask how he is doing, Ilya
Ippolytovich! Why, we are fearing the worst every day."
Ilya threw her a reproachful glance and said loudly: "It is nonsense, father! You have still a hundred years to live! You are tired, let us sit down here and have a talk together."
They sat down on the marble steps of the terrace. Silence. No words came to Ilya. Try as he might, he could not think what to say.
"Well, I am still painting pictures," he tried at last; "I am preparing to go abroad."
The old man did not hear him; he looked at his son without seeing or understanding, plunged in his own reflections.
"You have come to look at me? You think I shall die soon?" he asked suddenly.
Ilya Ippolytovich grew very pale and muttered confusedly: "What are you saying, father? What do you mean?"
But his father no longer heard. He had fallen back in his chair, his eyes half-closed and glassy, his face utterly expressionless. He was asleep.