“He is sick,” was that thought. “He is lonely and ill, and unable even to write.” So much did the idea gam upon her that she passed a sleepless night, and rose pale, quiet, and determined. The same morning—it was Monday—the landlady informed Oblomov that a visitor desired to see him.
“To see me? Surely not?” he exclaimed. “Where is she?”
“Outside. Shall I send her away?” Oblomov was about to assent when Olga’s maid, Katia, entered the room. Oblomov changed countenance. “How come you to be here?” he asked.
“My mistress is outside,” she replied, “and has sent me in to bid you go to her.” There was no help for it, so he went out, and found Olga alone.
“Are you quite well?” she exclaimed. “What has been the matter with you?” With that they entered his: study.
“I am better now—the sore throat is almost gone,” he replied; and as he spoke he touched the part mentioned, and coughed slightly.
“Then why did you not come last night?” She raked him with a glance so keen that for the moment he found himself tongue-tied.
“And why have you taken such a step as this?” he countered. “Surely you know what you are doing?”
“Never mind,” she retorted impatiently. “I do not believe you have been ill at all.”
“No—I have not,” he confessed.