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When he had gone into the little drawing-room, where he always

had tea, and had settled himself in his armchair with a book, and

Agafea Mihalovna had brought him tea, and with her usual, "Well,

I'll stay a while, sir," had taken a chair in the window, he felt

that, however strange it might be, he had not parted from his

daydreams, and that he could not live without them. Whether with

her, or with another, still it would be. He was reading a book,

and thinking of what he was reading, and stopping to listen to

Agafea Mihalovna, who gossiped away without flagging, and yet

with all that, all sorts of pictures of family life and work in

the future rose disconnectedly before his imagination. He felt

that in the depth of his soul something had been put in its

place, settled down, and laid to rest.