“What are you saying!” cried Marya Konstantinovna in horror.  “For God’s sake, what are you saying!”

“Our getting married won’t make things any better.  On the contrary, it will make them even worse.  We shall lose our freedom.”

“My dear, my dear, what are you saying!” exclaimed Marya Konstantinovna, stepping back and flinging up her hands.  “You are talking wildly!  Think what you are saying.  You must settle down!”

“‘Settle down.’  How do you mean?  I have not lived yet, and you tell me to settle down.”

Nadyezhda Fyodorovna reflected that she really had not lived.  She had finished her studies in a boarding-school and had been married to a man she did not love; then she had thrown in her lot with Laevsky, and had spent all her time with him on this empty, desolate coast, always expecting something better.  Was that life?

“I ought to be married though,” she thought, but remembering Kirilin and Atchmianov she flushed and said: 

“No, it’s impossible.  Even if Ivan Andreitch begged me to on his knees—­even then I would refuse.”

Marya Konstantinovna sat on the sofa for a minute in silence, grave and mournful, gazing fixedly into space; then she got up and said coldly: 

“Good-bye, my dear!  Forgive me for having troubled you.  Though it’s not easy for me, it’s my duty to tell you that from this day all is over between us, and, in spite of my profound respect for Ivan Andreitch, the door of my house is closed to you henceforth.”

She uttered these words with great solemnity and was herself overwhelmed by her solemn tone.  Her face began quivering again; it assumed a soft almond-oily expression.  She held out both hands to Nadyezhda Fyodorovna, who was overcome with alarm and confusion, and said in an imploring voice: 

“My dear, allow me if only for a moment to be a mother or an elder sister to you!  I will be as frank with you as a mother.”

Nadyezhda Fyodorovna felt in her bosom warmth, gladness, and pity for herself, as though her own mother had really risen up and were standing before her.  She impulsively embraced Marya Konstantinovna and pressed her face to her shoulder.  Both of them shed tears.  They sat down on the sofa and for a few minutes sobbed without looking at one another or being able to utter a word.

“My dear child,” began Marya Konstantinovna, “I will tell you some harsh truths, without sparing you.”

“For God’s sake, for God’s sake, do!

“Trust me, my dear.  You remember of all the ladies here, I was the only one to receive you.  You horrified me from the very first day, but I had not the heart to treat you with disdain like all the rest.  I grieved over dear, good Ivan Andreitch as though he were my son —­a young man in a strange place, inexperienced, weak, with no mother; and I was worried, dreadfully worried. . . .  My husband was opposed to our making his acquaintance,