“Well, well,” said Father Christopher in surprise. “What about your tea?”

Still thinking what to complain of, Yegorushka leaned his head against the wall and broke into sobs.

“Well, well!” repeated Father Christopher, getting up and going to the sofa. “Yegory, what is the matter with you? Why are you crying?”

“I’m⁠ ⁠… I’m ill,” Yegorushka brought out.

“Ill?” said Father Christopher in amazement. “That’s not the right thing, my boy.⁠ ⁠… One mustn’t be ill on a journey. Aie, aie, what are you thinking about, boy⁠ ⁠… eh?”

He put his hand to Yegorushka’s head, touched his cheek and said:

“Yes, your head’s feverish.⁠ ⁠… You must have caught cold or else have eaten something.⁠ ⁠… Pray to God.”

“Should we give him quinine?⁠ ⁠…” said Ivan Ivanitch, troubled.

“No; he ought to have something hot.⁠ ⁠… Yegory, have a little drop of soup? Eh?”

“I⁠ ⁠… don’t want any,” said Yegorushka.

“Are you feeling chilly?”

“I was chilly before, but now⁠ ⁠… now I am hot. And I ache all over.⁠ ⁠…”

Ivan Ivanitch went up to the sofa, touched Yegorushka on the head, cleared his throat with a perplexed air, and went back to the table.

“I tell you what, you undress and go to bed,” said Father Christopher. “What you want is sleep now.”