-and Woloda burst out laughing.

"Impossible!" I cried in astonishment.

"But the principal thing at this moment," went on Woloda, becoming
serious again, and relapsing into French, "is to think how delighted all
our relations will be with this marriage! Why, she will probably have
children!"

Woloda's prudence and forethought struck me so forcibly that I had no
answer to make. Just at this moment Lubotshka approached us.

"So you know?" she said with a joyful face.

"Yes," said Woloda. "Still, I am surprised at you, Lubotshka. You are no
longer a baby in long clothes. Why should you be so pleased because Papa
is going to marry a piece of trash?"

At this Lubotshka's face fell, and she became serious.

"Oh, Woloda!" she exclaimed. "Why 'a piece of trash' indeed? How can you
dare to speak of Avdotia like that? If Papa is going to marry her she
cannot be 'trash.'"

"No, not trash, so to speak, but--"

"No 'buts' at all!" interrupted Lubotshka, flaring up. "You have never
heard me call the girl whom you are in love with 'trash!' How, then, can
you speak so of Papa and a respectable woman? Although you are my elder
brother, I won't allow you to speak like that! You ought not to!"

"Mayn't I even express an opinion about--"

"No, you mayn't!" repeated Lubotshka. "No one ought to criticise such a
father as ours. Mimi has the right to, but not you, however much you may
be the eldest brother."

"Oh you don't understand anything," said Woloda contemptuously. "Try
and do so. How can it be a good thing that a 'Dunetchka' of an Epifanov
should take the place of our dead Mamma?"

For a moment Lubotshka was silent. Then the tears suddenly came into her
eyes.

"I knew that you were conceited, but I never thought that you could be
cruel," she said, and left us.

"Pshaw!" said Woloda, pulling a serio-comic face and make-believe,
stupid eyes. "That's what comes of arguing with them." Evidently he felt
that he was at fault in having so far forgot himself as to descend to
discuss matters at all with Lubotshka.

Next day the weather was bad, and neither Papa nor the ladies had come
down to morning tea when I entered the drawing-room. There had been
cold rain in the night, and remnants of the clouds from which it had
descended were still scudding across the sky, with the sun's luminous
disc (not yet risen to any great height) showing faintly through
them. It was a windy, damp, grey morning. The door into the garden was
s