“Vile, wicked girl!” she thought, as despairingly she let her hands fall into her lap. Suddenly it consoled her to imagine that possibly things had not gone too far, and her face assumed a dull, almost a cunning expression. She read and re-read the letter, yet could gather nothing from its frigid, affected style. Feeling how helpless she was, the old woman wept bitterly; and then, having set her cap straight, she asked the maid-servant: “Dounika, is Vladimir Petrovitch at home?” “What?” shouted Dounika. “Fool! I asked if the young gentleman was at home.” “He’s just gone into the study. He’s writing a letter!” replied Dounika, looking radiant, as if this letter were the reason for unusual rejoicing. Maria Ivanovna looked hard at the girl, and an evil light flashed from her faded eyes. “Toad! if you dare to fetch and carry letters again, I’ll give you a lesson that you’ll never forget.” Sanine was seated at the table, writing. His mother was so little used to seeing him write, that, in spite of her grief, she was interested. “What’s that you’re writing?” “A letter,” replied Sanine, looking up, gaily. “To whom?” “Oh! to a journalist I know. I think of joining the staff of his paper.” “So you write for the papers?” Sanine smiled. “I do everything.” “But why do you want to go there?” “Because I’m tired of living here with you, mother,” said Sanine frankly. Maria Ivanovna felt somewhat hurt. “Thank you,” she said. Sanine looked attentively at her, and felt inclined to tell her not to be so silly as to imagine that a man, especially one who had no employment, could care to remain always in the same place. But it irked him to have to say such a thing; and he was silent. Maria Ivanovna took out her pocket-handkerchief and crumpled it nervously in her fingers. If it had not been for Sarudine’s letter and her consequent distress and anxiety, she would have bitterly resented her son’s rudeness. But, as it was, she merely said: “Ah! yes, the one slinks out of the house like a wolf, and the other…” A gesture of resignation completed the sentence. Sanine looked up quickly, and put down his pen. “What do you know about it?” he asked. Suddenly Maria Ivanovna felt ashamed that she had read the letter to Lida. Turning very red, she replied unsteadily, but with some irritation: “Thank God, I am not blind! I can see.” “See? You can see nothing,” said Sanine, after a moment’s reflection, “and, to prove it allow me to congratulate you on the engagement of your daughter. She was going to tell you herself, but, after all, it comes to the same thing.” “What!” exclaimed Maria Ivanovna, drawing herself up. “Lida is going to be married!” “To whom?” “To Novikoff, of course.” “Yes, but what about Sarudine?” “Oh! he can go to the devil!” exclaimed Sanine angrily. “What’s that to do with you? Why meddle with other people’s affairs?”