“But mind, nobody is to see!” cried the delighted Gania “And of course I may rely on your word of honour, eh?” “I won’t show it to anyone,” said the prince. “The letter is not sealed—” continued Gania, and paused in confusion. “Oh, I won’t read it,” said the prince, quite simply. He took up the portrait, and went out of the room. Gania, left alone, clutched his head with his hands. “One word from her,” he said, “one word from her, and I may yet be free.” He could not settle himself to his papers again, for agitation and excitement, but began walking up and down the room from corner to corner. The prince walked along, musing. He did not like his commission, and disliked the idea of Gania sending a note to Aglaya at all; but when he was two rooms distant from the drawing-room, where they all were, he stopped as though recalling something; went to the window, nearer the light, and began to examine the portrait in his hand. He longed to solve the mystery of something in the face of Nastasia Philipovna, something which had struck him as he looked at the portrait for the first time; the impression had not left him. It was partly the fact of her marvellous beauty that struck him, and partly something else. There was a suggestion of immense pride and disdain in the face almost of hatred, and at the same time something confiding and very full of simplicity. The contrast aroused a deep sympathy in his heart as he looked at the lovely face. The blinding loveliness of it was almost intolerable, this pale thin face with its flaming eyes; it was a strange beauty. The prince gazed at it for a minute or two, then glanced around him, and hurriedly raised the portrait to his lips. When, a minute after, he reached the drawing-room door, his face was quite composed. But just as he reached the door he met Aglaya coming out alone. “Gavrila Ardalionovitch begged me to give you this,” he said, handing her the note. Aglaya stopped, took the letter, and gazed strangely into the prince’s eyes. There was no confusion in her face; a little surprise, perhaps, but that was all. By her look she seemed merely to challenge the prince to an explanation as to how he and Gania happened to be connected in this matter. But her expression was perfectly cool and quiet, and even condescending. So they stood for a moment or two, confronting one another. At length a faint smile passed over her face, and she passed by him without a word. Mrs. Epanchin examined the portrait of Nastasia Philipovna for some little while, holding it critically at arm’s length. “Yes, she is pretty,” she said at last, “even very pretty. I have seen her twice, but only at a distance. So you admire this kind of beauty, do you?” she asked the prince, suddenly. “Yes, I do—this kind.” “Do you mean especially this kind?” “Yes, especially this kind.” “Why?” “There is much suffering in this face,” murmured the prince, more as though talking to himself than answering the question.