Marfa Timofeevna looked up at him quickly.

“For whom is it intended?” she said.  “For a man who never slanders, who does not intrigue, and who makes up no falsehoods—­if, indeed, such a man is to be found in the world.  I know Fedia thoroughly well; the only thing for which he is to blame is that he spoilt his wife.  To be sure he married for love; and from such love-matches no good ever comes,” added the old lady, casting a side glance at Maria Dmitrievna.  Then, standing up, she added:  “But now you can whet your teeth on whom you will; on me, if you like.  I’m off.  I won’t hinder you any longer.”  And with these words she disappeared.

“She is always like that,” said Maria Dmitrievna following her aunt with her eyes—­“always.”

“What else can be expected of her at her time of life?” replied Gedeonovsky.  “Just see now!  ‘Who does not intrigue?’ she was pleased to say.  But who is there nowadays who doesn’t intrigue?  It is the custom of the present age.  A friend of mine—­a most respectable man, and one, I may as well observe, of no slight rank—­used to say, ’Nowadays, it seems, if a hen wants a grain of corn she approaches it cunningly, watches anxiously for an opportunity of sidling up to it.’  But when I look at you, dear lady, I recognize in you a truly angelic nature.  May I be allowed to kiss your snow-white hand?”

Maria Dmitrievna slightly smiled, and held out her plump hand to Gedeonovsky, keeping the little finger gracefully separated from the rest; and then, after he had raised her hand to his lips, she drew her chair closer to his, bent a little towards him, and asked, in a low voice—­

“So you have seen him?  And is he really well and in good spirits?”

“In excellent spirits,” replied Gedeonovsky in a whisper.

“You haven’t heard where his wife is now?”

“A short time ago she was in Paris; but she is gone away, they say, and is now in Italy.”

“Really it is shocking—­Fedia’s position.  I can’t think how he manages to bear it.  Every one, of course, has his misfortunes; but his affairs, one may say, have become known all over Europe.”

Gedeonovsky sighed.

“Quite so, quite so!  They say she has made friends with artists and pianists; or, as they call them there, with lions and other wild beasts.  She has completely lost all sense of shame—­”

“It’s very, very sad,” said Maria Dmitrievna; “especially for a relation.  You know, don’t you, Sergius Petrovich, that he is a far-away cousin of mine?”

“To be sure, to be sure!  You surely don’t suppose I could be ignorant of any thing that concerns your family.”

“Will he come to see us?  What do you think?”

“One would suppose so; but afterwards, I am told, he will go and live on his estate in the country.”

Maria Dmitrievna lifted her eyes towards heaven.

“Oh, Sergius Petrovich, Sergius Petrovich! how often I think how necessary it is for us women to behave circumspectly!”