first, but suddenly, when I came
to-day, she was beaming all over, what does that mean?"

"It's because I promised her to-day that within five days I'll be
engaged to Lizaveta Nikolaevna," Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch said with
surprising openness.

"Oh!... Yes, of course," faltered Pyotr Stepanovitch, seeming
disconcerted. "There are rumours of her engagement, you know. It's true,
too. But you're right, she'd run from under the wedding crown, you've
only to call to her. You're not angry at my saying so?"

"No, I'm not angry."

"I notice it's awfully hard to make you angry to-day, and I begin to be
afraid of you. I'm awfully curious to know how you'll appear to-morrow.
I expect you've got a lot of things ready. You're not angry at my saying
so?"

Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch made no answer at all, which completed Pyotr
Stepanovitch's irritation.

"By the way, did you say that in earnest to your mother, about Lizaveta
Nikolaevna?" he asked.

Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch looked coldly at him.

"Oh, I understand, it was only to soothe her, of course."

"And if it were in earnest?" Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch asked firmly.

"Oh, God bless you then, as they say in such cases. It won't hinder the
cause (you see, I don't say 'our,' you don't like the word 'our') and I
... well, I... am at your service, as you know."

"You think so?"

"I think nothing--nothing," Pyotr Stepanovitch hurriedly declared,
laughing, "because I know you consider what you're about beforehand for
yourself, and everything with you has been thought out. I only mean that
I am seriously at your service, always and everywhere, and in every sort
of circumstance, every sort really, do you understand that?"

Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch yawned.

"I've bored you," Pyotr Stepanovitch cried, jumping up suddenly, and
snatching his perfectly new round hat as though he were going away. He
remained and went on talking, however, though he stood up, sometimes
pacing about the room and tapping himself on the knee with his hat at
exciting parts of the conversation.

"I meant to amuse you with stories of the Lembkes, too," he cried gaily.

"Afterwards, perhaps, not now. But how is Yulia Mihailovna?"

"What conventional manners all of you have! Her health is no more to
you than the health of the grey cat, yet you ask after it. I approve
of that. She's quite well, and her respect for you amounts to a
superstition, her immense anticipations of you amount to a superstition.
She