Next morning Yourii rose late, feeling indisposed. His head ached, and
he had a bad taste in his mouth. At first he could only recollect
shouts, jingling glasses, and the waning light of lamps at dawn. Then
he remembered how, stumbling and grunting, Schafroff and Peter Ilitsch
had retired, while he and Ivanoff--the latter pale with drink, but firm
on his feet--stood talking on the balcony. They had no eyes for the
radiant morning sky, pale green at the horizon, and changing over head
to blue; they did not see the fair meadows and fields, nor the shining
river that lay below.

They still went on arguing. Ivanoff triumphantly proved to Yourii that
people of his sort were worthless, since they feared to take from life
that which life offered them. They were far better dead and forgotten.
It was with malicious pleasure that he quoted Peter Ilitsch's remark,
"I should certainly never call such persons men," as he laughed wildly,
imagining that he had demolished Yourii by such a phrase. Yet, strange
to say, Yourii was not annoyed by it, dealing only with Ivanoff's
assertion that his life was a miserable one. That, he said, was because
"people of his sort" were more sensitive, more highly-strung; and he
agreed that they were far better out of the world. Then, becoming
intensely depressed, he almost wept. He now recollected with shame how
he had been on the point of telling Ivanoff of his love-episode with
Sina, and had almost flung the honour of that pure, lovely girl at the
feet of this truculent sot. When at last Ivanoff, growling, had gone
out into the courtyard, the room to Yourii seemed horribly dreary and
deserted.