He looked round. His face was sallow, morose, and not only melancholy but deeply unhappy. He tried to welcome his host with a smile, but his face assumed a still more woe-begone expression. It seemed as though he were on the point of tears.
With effort he stood up and bowed. "If I might have just a little glass of simple vodka," he exclaimed with a supplicating expression. "I am so weak. If you please!"
"Coffee will be more strengthening, I would advise you."
Albert's face lost its childish expression; he gazed coldly, sadly, out of the window, and fell back into the chair.
"Wouldn't you like some breakfast?"
"No, thank you, I haven't any appetite."
"If you want to play on the violin, you will not disturb me," said Delesof, laying the instrument on the table. Albert looked at the violin with a contemptuous smile.
"No, I am too weak, I cannot play," he said, and pushed the instrument from him.
After that, in reply to all Delesof's propositions to go to walk, to go to the theatre in the evening, or any thing else, he only shook his head mournfully, and refused to speak.
Delesof went out, made a few calls, dined out, and before the theatre hour, he returned to his rooms to change his attire and find out how the musician was getting along.