In her youth Marya Dmitrievna had always been spoken of as a pretty blonde; and at fifty her features had not lost all charm, though they were somewhat coarser and less delicate in outline.  She was more sentimental than kindhearted; and even at her mature age, she retained the manners of the boarding-school.  She was self-indulgent and easily put out, even moved to tears when she was crossed in any of her habits.  She was, however, very sweet and agreeable when all her wishes were carried out and none opposed her.  Her house was among the pleasantest in the town.  She had a considerable fortune, not so much from her own property as from her husband’s savings.  Her two daughters were living with her; her son was being educated in one of the best government schools in Petersburg.

The old lady sitting with Marya Dmitrievna at the window was her father’s sister, the same aunt with whom she had once spent some solitary years in Pokrovskoe.  Her name was Marfa Timofyevna Pestov.  She had a reputation for eccentricity as she was a woman of an independent character, told every one the truth to his face, and even in the most straitened circumstances behaved just as if she had a fortune at her disposal.  She could not endure Kalitin, and directly her niece married him, she removed to her little property, where for ten whole years she lived in a smoky peasants’ hut.  Marya Dmitrievna was a little afraid of her.  A little sharp-nosed woman with black hair and keen eyes even in her old age, Marfa Timofyevna walked briskly, held herself upright and spoke quickly and clearly in a sharp ringing voice.  She always wore a white cap and a white dressing-jacket.

“What’s the matter with you?” she asked Marya Dmitrievna suddenly.  “What are you sighing about, pray?”

“Nothing,” answered the latter.  “What exquisite clouds!”

“You feel sorry for them, eh?”

Marya Dmitrievna made no reply.

“Why is it Gedeonovsky does not come?” observed Marfa Timofyevna, moving her knitting needles quickly. (She was knitting a large woolen scarf.) “He would have sighed with you—­or at least he’d have had some fib to tell you.”

“How hard you always are on him!  Sergei Petrovitch is a worthy man.”

“Worthy!” repeated the old lady scornfully.

“And how devoted he was to my poor husband!” observed Marya Dmitrievna; “even now he cannot speak of him without emotion.”

“And no wonder!  It was he who picked him out of the gutter,” muttered Marfa Timofyevna, and her knitting needles moved faster than ever.

“He looks so meek and mild,” she began again, “with his grey head, but he no sooner opens his mouth than out comes a lie or a slander.  And to think of his having the rank of a councillor!  To be sure, though, he’s only a village priest’s son.”

“Every one has faults, auntie; that is his weak point, no doubt.  Sergei Petrovitch has had no education:  of course he does not speak French, still, say what you like, he is an agreeable man.”