“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, she seemed to have renounced all thought, all will of her own, and to have surrendered herself completely to Marya Dmitrievna.

Lavretsky stepped back a pace.

“You have been here all the time!” he cried.

“Do not blame her,” explained Marya Dmitrievna; “she was most unwilling to stay, but I forced her to remain.  I put her behind the screen.  She assured me that this would only anger you more; I would not even listen to her; I know you better than she does.  Take your wife back from my hands; come, Varya, do not fear, fall at your husband’s feet (she gave a pull at her arm) and my blessing” . . .