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?"

"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