Markovitch was silent, drinking his tea, watching his wife, watching us all with his nervous frowning expression.
I rose to go and then, when I had said farewell to every one and went towards the door, Semyonov joined me.
“Well, Ivan Andreievitch,” he said. “So we have not finished with one another yet.”
He looked at me with his steady unswerving eyes; he smiled.
I also smiled as I found my coat and hat in the little hall. Sacha helped me into my Shuba. He stood, his lips a little apart, watching me.
“What have you been doing all this time?” he asked me.
“I’ve been ill,” I answered.
“Not had, I hope.”
“No, not had. But enough to keep me very idle.”
“As much of an optimist as ever?”