"Tell me, doctor, does he expect his son and daughter?"
"Only his daughter, Anna Iurievna. She promised to come, with her oldest children. A telegram came yesterday. We have been expecting her all day."
"What is the cause of this sudden tenderness? They have not seen each other for ten years. Does he expect her husband, too? His son-in-law, the pedagogue?" contemptuously asked the general's wife.
"No! How could he come? He could not leave his service. And his son, too, Peter Iurevitch, he cannot come at once. He is on duty, in Transcaspia. It is a long way."
"Yes, it is a long way!" assented the general's wife, evidently busy with other thoughts. "But tell me, Edouard Vicentevitch, this new will, has it been written long?"
"It was drawn up only to-day. The draft was prepared last week, but the general kept putting it off. But when his pains began this morning. . . ."
"Is it the end? Is it dangerous?" interrupted Olga Vseslavovna.
"Very—a very bad sign. When they began, Iuri Paylovitch sent at once for the lawyer. He was still here when you arrived."
"Yes. And the old will, which he made before, has been destroyed?"
"I do not know for certain. But I think not. Oh, no, I forgot.
The general was going to send a telegram."