When at eight next morning Olga Ivanovna, heavy, from sleeplessness, untidy, unattractive, and guilty-faced, came out of her bedroom, an unknown, black-bearded man, obviously a doctor, passed her in the hall. There was a smell of drugs. Outside Duimoff's study stood Korosteleff, twisting his left moustache with his right hand.
“Excuse me, I cannot let you in,” he said, looking at her savagely. “You might catch the diseased And in any case, what's the use? He's raving.”
“Is it really diphtheria?” whispered Olga Ivanovna.
“People who do foolish things ought to pay for them,” muttered Korosteleff, ignoring Olga Ivanovna's question. “Do you know how he got this diphtheria? On Tuesday he sucked through a tube the diphtheria laminse from a boy's throat. And why? Stupid. . . . Like a fool!”
“Is it dangerous? Very?” asked she.
“Yes, it's a very bad form, they say. We must send for Schreck, we must. . . .”
First came a little, red-haired, long-nosed man with a Jewish accent; then a tall, stooping, untidy man like a proto-deacon; lastly a young, very stout, red-faced man with spectacles. All these doctors came to attend their sick colleague. Korosteleff, having
