Raisky went into the study and walked up to the bed on tiptoe.
“Who is there?” asked Leonti feebly.
When Leonti recognised Raisky he pushed his feet out of bed, and sat up.
“Is he gone?” he asked weakly. “I pretended to be asleep. You have not been for so long, and I have been expecting you all the time. The face of an old comrade is the only one that I can bear to see.”
“I have been away, and heard when I returned of your illness.”
“It is gossip. There is a conspiracy to say I am ill, which is all foolish talk. Mark, who even fetched a doctor, has been hanging about here as if he were afraid I should do myself an injury,” said Leonti and paced up and down the room.
“You are weak, and walk with difficulty,” said Raisky. “It would be better for you to lie down.”
“I am weak, that is true,” admitted Leonti.
He bent over the chair-back to Raisky, embraced him, and laid his face against his hair. Raisky felt hot tears on his forehead and cheeks.
“It is weakness,” sobbed Leonti. “But I am not ill, and have not brain fever. They talk, but don’t understand. And I understood nothing either, but now that I see you, I cannot keep back my tears. Don’t abuse me like Mark, or laugh at me, as they all do, my colleagues and my sympathetic visitors. I can discern malicious laughter on all their faces.”