She watched Volodya at dinner.
“How pale and thin he has grown,” she said to herself, “since the
unfortunate little book fell into his hands. He’s changed entirely—in
character and in everything else. It is said that character changes
before death. What if he dies? But no, no. God forbid!”
The spoon trembled in her hand. She looked up at the ikon with timid
eyes.
“Volodya, why don’t you finish your soup?” she asked, looking
frightened.
“I don’t feel like it, mamma.”
“Volodya, darling, do as I tell you; it is bad for you not to eat your
soup.”
Volodya gave a tired smile and slowly finished his soup. His mother had
filled his plate fuller than usual. He leant back in his chair and was
on the point of saying that the soup was not good. But his mother’s
worried look restrained him, and he merely smiled weakly.
“And now I’ve had enough,” he said.
“Oh no, Volodya, I have all your favourite dishes to-day.”
Volodya sighed sadly. He knew that when his mother spoke of his
favourite dishes it meant that she would coax him to eat. He guessed
that even after tea his mother would prevail upon him, as she did the
day before, to eat meat.