"Akh, aren't you ashamed to talk like that! She sang and played merely with the object of giving me pleasure, because I begged, almost commanded her to do so. I perceive that she is distressed--so distressed, I wonder how I can divert her. And I had heard that she had such a fine talent.--Upon my word, Feodor Ivanitch, she is a completely crushed, overwhelmed woman--ask Sergyei Petrovitch if she is not, _tout a fait_,--what have you to say to that?" Lavretzky simply shrugged his shoulders. "And then, what a little angel that Ada of your is, what a darling!--How pretty she is, how clever! how well she talks French; and she understands Russian--she called me _tyotenka_ [aunty]. And do you know, as for being shy, like nearly all children of her age,--there is no shyness about her. She is awfully like you, Feodor Ivanitch. Her eyes, her brows ... well, she's you all over again, your perfect image. I am not very fond of such small children, I must confess; but I have simply lost my heart to your little daughter." "Marya Dmitrievna,"--exclaimed Lavretzky, suddenly:--"allow me to ask you why you are pleased to say all this to me?" "Why?"--again Marya Dmitrievna sniffed at her eau de Cologne, and sipped her water:--"I say it, Feodor Ivanitch, because ... you see, I am a relative, I take the closest interest in you.... I know that you have the very kindest of hearts. Hearken to me, _mon cousin_,--I am a woman of experience, and I am not talking at random: forgive, forgive your wife."--Marya Dmitrievna's eyes suddenly filled with tears.--"Reflect: youth, inexperience ... well, perhaps, a bad example--she had not the sort of a mother who might have put her on the right road. Forgive her, Feodor Ivanitch; she has been sufficiently punished." Tears trickled down Marya Dmitrievna's cheeks; she did not wipe them away: she loved to weep. Lavretzky sat as on hot coals. "My God,"--he thought,--"what sort of torture, what sort of a day has fallen to my lot!" "You do not answer,"--began Marya Dmitrievna again:--"what am I to understand by that?--is it possible that you can be so cruel? No, I will not believe that. I feel that my words have convinced you. Feodor Ivanitch, God will reward you for your kindness of heart, and you will now receive your wife from my hands...." Lavretzky involuntarily rose from his chair; Marya Dmitrievna also rose, and stepping briskly behind a screen, led forth Varvara Pavlovna. Pale, half-fainting, with eyes cast down, she seemed to have renounced every thought, every impulse of her own--to have placed herself wholly in the hands of Marya Dmitrievna. Lavretzky retreated a pace. "You were here?"--he exclaimed.