If you are so offended," Nikolay Sergeitch went on, "well, if you
like, I'm ready to apologise. I ask your pardon."

Mashenka made no answer, but only bent lower over her box. This
exhausted, irresolute man was of absolutely no significance in the
household. He stood in the pitiful position of a dependent and
hanger-on, even with the servants, and his apology meant nothing
either.

"H'm! . . . You say nothing! That's not enough for you. In that
case, I will apologise for my wife. In my wife's name. . . . She
behaved tactlessly, I admit it as a gentleman. . . ."

Nikolay Sergeitch walked about the room, heaved a sigh, and went
on:

"Then you want me to have it rankling here, under my heart. . . .
You want my conscience to torment me. . . ."

"I know it's not your fault, Nikolay Sergeitch," said Mashenka,
looking him full in the face with her big tear-stained eyes. "Why
should you worry yourself?"

"Of course, no. . . . But still, don't you . . . go away. I entreat
you."

Mashenka shook her head. Nikolay Sergeitch stopped at the window
and drummed on the pane with his finger-tips.

"Such misunderstandings are simply torture to me," he said. "Why,
do you want me to go down on my knees to you, or what? Your pride
is wounded, and here you've been crying and packing up to go; but
I have pride, too, and you do not spare it! Or do you want me to
tell you what I would not tell as Confession? Do you? Listen; you
want me to tell you what I won't tell the priest on my deathbed?"

Mashenka made no answer.

"I took my wife's brooch," Nikolay Sergeitch said quickly. "Is that
enough now? Are you satisfied? Yes, I . . . took it. . . . But, of
course, I count on your discretion. . . . For God's sake, not a
word, not half a hint to any one!"

Mashenka, amazed and frightened, went on packing; she snatched her
things, crumpled them up, and thrust them anyhow into the box and
the basket. Now, after this candid avowal on the part of Nikolay
Sergeitch, she could not remain another minute, and could not
understand how she could have gone on living in the house before.

"And it's nothing to wonder at," Nikolay Sergeitch went on after a
pause. "It's an everyday story! I need money, and she . . . won't
give it to me. It was my father's money that bought this house and
everything, you know! It's all mine, and the brooch belonged to my
mother, and . . . it's all mine! And she took it, took possession
of everything. . . . I can't go