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There was not a single good-looking face among the portraits, nothing but broad cheekbones and astonished-looking eyes. Lyalikov, Liza's father, had a low forehead and a self-satisfied expression; his uniform sat like a sack on his bulky plebeian figure; on his breast was a medal and a Red Cross Badge.
But what are the profits, and how do they enjoy them? Madame Lyalikov and her daughter are unhappy it makes one wretched to look at them; the only one who enjoys her life is Christina Dmitryevna, a stupid, middle-aged maiden lady in pince-nez.
THE Professor received a telegram from the Lyalikovs' factory; he was asked to come as quickly as possible. The daughter of some Madame Lyalikov, apparently the owner of the factory, was ill, and that was all that one could make out of the long, incoherent telegram. And the Professor did not go himself, but sent instead his assistant, Korolyov.
"Pray walk in. . . . We've been expecting you so long . . . we're in real trouble. Here, this way." Madame Lyalikov a stout elderly lady wearing a black silk dress with fashionable sleeves, but, judging from her face, a simple uneducated woman looked at the doctor in a flutter, and could not bring herself to hold out her hand to him; she did not dare.
He spoke deliberately as he put on his gloves, while Madame Lyalikov stood without moving, and looked at him with her tearful eyes. "I have half an hour to catch the ten o'clock train," he said. "I hope I am not too late." "And can't you stay?" she asked, and tears trickled down her cheeks again.
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