It was his way, and after a very brief experience of it one trained oneself to regard it as an inevitable background, like the jerking and smoke of the train, the dust, the shrill Russian voices in the next compartment, the blowing of paper to and fro in the corridor.

I very quickly discovered that he was intensely conscious of Nikitin, who scarcely throughout the day moved from his upper bunk.

Andrey Vassilievitch handed him his tea, brought his meat pies and sandwiches from the station, and offered him newspapers.

He did not, however, speak to him and I was aware that throughout that long day he was never once unconscious of him.

His chatter, which was always the most irrepressible thing in the world, had, perhaps, to-day some direction behind it.