“Her excellency told me to ask you very particularly,” continued the servant.  “She gave orders to say she was at home.”

“Have the visitors gone?” asked Lavretsky.

“Certainly, sir,” replied the servant with a grin.

Lavretsky shrugged his shoulders and followed him.

Chapter XLIII

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?”