which has been hurt and bruised before: and in
almost every family there exists some such raw and tender spot. In the
Nechludoff family that spot was Dimitri's extraordinary affection
for Lubov Sergievna, which aroused in the mother and sister, if not a
jealous feeling, at all events a sense of hurt family pride. This
was the grave significance which underlay, for all those present, the
seeming dispute about Ivan Yakovlevitch and superstition.

"In anything that other people deride and despise you invariably profess
to see something extraordinarily good!" Varenika was saying in her clear
voice, as she articulated each syllable with careful precision.

"Indeed?" retorted Dimitri with an impatient toss of his head. "Now,
in the first place, only a most unthinking person could ever speak of
DESPISING such a remarkable man as Ivan Yakovlevitch, while, in the
second place, it is YOU who invariably profess to see nothing good in
what confronts you."

Meanwhile Sophia Ivanovna kept looking anxiously at us as she turned
first to her nephew, and then to her niece, and then to myself. Twice
she opened her mouth as though to say what was in her mind and drew a
deep sigh.

"Varia, PLEASE go on reading," she said at length, at the same time
handing her niece the book, and patting her hand kindly. "I wish to
know whether he ever found HER again" (as a matter of fact, the novel in
question contained not a word about any one finding any one else). "And,
Mitia dear," she added to her nephew, despite the glum looks which he
was throwing at her for having interrupted the logical thread of his
deductions, "you had better let me poultice your cheek, or your teeth
will begin to ache again."

After that the reading was resumed. Yet the quarrel had in no way
dispelled the calm atmosphere of family and intellectual harmony which
enveloped this circle of ladies.

Clearly deriving its inspiration and character from the Princess
Maria Ivanovna, it was a circle which, for me, had a wholly novel
and attractive character of logicalness mingled with simplicity and
refinement. That character I could discern in the daintiness, good
taste, and solidity of everything about me, whether the handbell, the
binding of the book, the settee, or the table. Likewise, I divined it in
the upright, well-corseted pose of the Princess, in her pendant curls
of grey hair, in the manner in which she had, at our first introduction,
called me plain "Nicolas" and "he,