Marya Dmitrievna was sitting alone in her boudoir in an easy-chair, sniffing eau de cologne; a glass of orange-flower-water was standing on a little table near her. She was agitated and seemed nervous.

Lavretsky came in.

“You wanted to see me,” he said, bowing coldly.

“Yes,” replied Marya Dmitrievna, and she sipped a little water: “I heard that you had gone straight up to my aunt; I gave orders that you should be asked to come in; I wanted to have a little talk with you. Sit down, please,” Marya Dmitrievna took breath. “You know,” she went on, “your wife has come.”

“I was aware of that,” remarked Lavretsky.

“Well, then, that is, I wanted to say, she came to me, and I received her; that is what I wanted to explain to you, Fedor Ivanitch. Thank God I have, I may say, gained universal respect, and for no consideration in the world would I do anything improper. Though I foresaw that it would be disagreeable to you, still I could not make up my mind to deny myself to her, Fedor Ivanitch; she is a relation of mine — through you; put yourself in my position, what right had I to shut my doors on her — you will agree with me?”

“You are exciting yourself needlessly, Mary Dmitrievna,” replied Lavretsky; “you acted very well, I am not angry. I have not the least intention of depriving Varvara Pavlovna of the opportunity of seeing her friends; I did not come in to you to-day simply because I did not care to meet her — that was all.”

“Ah, how glad I am to hear you say that, Fedor Ivanitch,” cried Marya Dmitrievna, “but I always expected it of your noble sentiments. And as for my being excited — that’s not to be wondered at; I am a woman and a mother. And your wife . . . of course I cannot judge between you and her — as I said to her herself; but she is such a delightful woman that she can produce nothing but a pleasant impression.”

Lavretsky gave a laugh and played with his hat.

“And this is what I wanted to say to you besides, Fedor Ivanitch,” continued Marya Dmitrievna, moving slightly nearer up to him, “if you had seen the modesty of her behaviour, how respectful she is! Really, it is quite touching. And if you had heard how she spoke of you! I have been to blame towards him, she said, altogether; I did not know how to appreciate him, she said; he is an angel, she said, and not a man. Really, that is what she said — an angel. Her penitence is such . . . Ah, upon my word, I have never seen such penitence!”

“Well, Marya Dmitrievna,” observed Lavretsky, “if I may be inquisitive: I am told that Varvara Pavlovna has been singing in your drawing-room; did she sing during the time of her penitence, or how was it?”

“Ah, I wonder you are not ashamed to talk like that! She sang and played the piano only to do me a kindness, because I positively entreated, almost commanded her to do so. I saw that she was sad, so sad; I thought how to distract her mind — and I heard that she had such marvellous talent! I assure you, Fedor Ivanitch, she is utterly crushed, ask Sergei Petrovitch even; a heart-broken woman, tout a fait: what do you say?”

Lavretsky only shrugged his shoulders.

“And then what a little angel is that Adotchka of yours, what a darling! How sweet she is, what a clever little thing; how she speaks French; and understand Russian too — she called me ‘auntie’ in Russian. And you know that as for shyness — almost all children at her age are shy — there’s not a trace of it. She’s so like you, Fedor Ivanitch, it’s amazing. The eyes, the forehead — well, it’s you over again, precisely you. I am not particularly fond of little children, I must own; but I simply lost my heart to your little girl.”

“Marya Dmitrievna,” Lavretsky blurted out suddenly, “allow me to ask you what is your object in talking to me like this?”

“What object?” Marya Dmitrievna sniffed her eau de cologne again, and took a sip of water. “Why, I am speaking to you, Fedor Ivanitch, because — I am a relation of yours, you know, I take the warmest interest in you — I know your heart is of the best. Listen to me, mon cousin. I am at any rate a woman of experience, and I shall not talk at random: forgive her, forgive your wife.” Marya Dmitrievna’s eyes suddenly filled with tears. “Only think: her youth, her inexperience . . . and who knows, perhaps, bad example; she had not a mother who could bring her up in the right way. Forgive her, Fedor Ivanitch, she has been punished enough.”

The tears were trickling down Marya Dmitrievna’s cheeks: she did not wipe them away, she was fond of weeping. Lavretsky sat as if on thorns. “Good God,” he thought, “what torture, what a day I have had to-day!”

“You make no reply,” Marya Dmitrievna began again. “How am I to understand you? Can you really be so cruel? No, I will not believe it. I feel that my words have influenced you, Fedor Ivanitch. God reward you for your goodness, and now receive your wife from my hands.”

Involuntarily Lavretsky jumped up from his chair; Marya Dmitrievna also rose and running quickly behind a screen, she led forth Varvara Pavlovna. Pale, almost lifeless, with downcast eyes, s............