“H’m! . . .  Why?”

“That’s what father says.  ‘You are unhappy children,’ he says.  It’s strange to hear him, really.  ‘You are unhappy,’ he says, ’I am unhappy, and mother’s unhappy.  You must pray to God,’ he says; ’for yourselves and for her.’”

Alyosha let his eyes rest on a stuffed bird and sank into thought.

“So . . .” growled Belyaev.  “So that’s how you are going on.  You arrange meetings at restaurants.  And mother does not know?”

“No-o. . . .  How should she know?  Pelagea would not tell her for anything, you know.  The day before yesterday he gave us some pears.  As sweet as jam!  I ate two.”

“H’m! . . .  Well, and I say . .  Listen.  Did father say anything about me?”

“About you?  What shall I say?”

Alyosha looked searchingly into Belyaev’s face and shrugged his shoulders.

“He didn’t say anything particular.”

“For instance, what did he say?”

“You won’t be offended?”

“What next?  Why, does he abuse me?”

“He doesn’t abuse you, but you know he is angry with you.  He says mother’s unhappy owing to you . . . and that you have ruined mother.  You know he is so queer!  I explain to him that you are kind, that you never scold mother; but he only shakes his head.”

“So he says I have ruined her?”

“Yes; you mustn’t be offended, Nikolay Ilyitch.”

Belyaev got up, stood still a moment, and walked up and down the drawing-room.

“That’s strange and . . . ridiculous!” he muttered, shrugging his shoulders and smiling sarcastically.  “He’s entirely to blame, and I have ruined her, eh?  An innocent lamb, I must say.  So he told you I ruined your mother?”

“Yes, but . . . you said you would not be offended, you know.”

“I am not offended, and . . . and it’s not your business.  Why, it’s . . . why, it’s positively ridiculous!  I have been thrust into it like a chicken in the broth, and now it seems I’m to blame!”

A ring was heard.  The boy sprang up from his place and ran out.  A minute later a lady came into the room with a little girl; this was Olga Ivanovna, Alyosha’s mother.  Alyosha followed them in, skipping and jumping, humming aloud and waving his hands.  Belyaev nodded, and went on walking up and down.

“Of course, whose fault is it if not mine?” he muttered with a snort.  “He is right!  He is an injured husband.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Olga Ivanovna.

“What about? . . .  Why, just listen to the tales your lawful spouse is spreading now!  It appears that I am a scoundrel and a villain, that I have ruined you and the children.  All of you are unhappy, and I am the only happy one!  Wonderfully, wonderfully happy!”

“I don’t understand, Nikolay.  What’s the matter?”

“Why, listen to this young gentleman!” said Belyaev, pointing to Alyosha.

Alyosha flushed crimson, then turned pale, and his whole face began working with terror.