But what was her amazement, her joyful surprise, when Mosgliakoff came up to her after dinner, of his own accord, and suddenly and most unexpectedly informed her that he must—to his infinite regret—leave the house on important business for a short while. “Why, where are you going to?” she asked, with great show of regret. “Well, you see,” began Mosgliakoff, rather disconcerted and uncomfortable, “I have to—_may_ I come to you for advice?” “What is it—what is it?” “Why, you see, my godfather Borodueff—you know the man; I met him in the street to-day, and he is dreadfully angry with me, says I am grown so _proud_, that though I have been in Mordasoff three times I have never shown my nose inside his doors. He asked me to come in for a cup of tea at five—it’s four now. He has no children, you know,—and he is worth a million of roubles—_more_, they say; and if I marry Zina—you see,—and he’s seventy years old now!” “Why, my good boy, of course, of course!—what are you thinking of? You must not neglect that sort of thing—go at once, of course! I _thought_ you looked preoccupied at dinner. You ought to have gone this morning and shewn him that you cared for him, and so on. Oh, you boys, you boys!” cried Maria Alexandrovna with difficulty concealing her joy. “Thanks, thanks, Maria Alexandrovna! you’ve made a man of me again! I declare I quite feared telling you—for I know you didn’t think much of the connection.—He is a common sort of old fellow, I know! So good-bye—my respects to Zina, and apologies—I must be off, of course I shall be back soon!” “Good-bye—take my blessing with you; say something polite to the old man for me; I have long changed my opinion of him; I have grown to like the real old Russian style of the man. _Au revoir, mon ami, au revoir!_” “Well, it _is_ a mercy that the devil has carried him off, out of the way!” she reflected, flushing with joy as Paul took his departure out of the room. But Paul had only just reached the hall and was putting on his fur coat when to him appeared—goodness knows whence—the widow, Nastasia Petrovna. She had been waiting for him. “Where are you going to?” she asked, holding him by the arm. “To my godfather Borodueff’s—a rich old fellow; I want him to leave me money. Excuse me—I’m in rather a hurry!” Mosgliakoff was in a capital humour! “Oh! then say good-bye to your betrothed!” remarked the widow, cuttingly. “And why ‘good-bye’?” “Why; you think she’s yours already, do you? and they are going to marry her to the prince! I heard them say so myself!” “To the prince? Oh, come now, Nastasia Petrovna!” “Oh, it’s not a case of ’come now’ at all! Would you like to see and hear it for yourself? Put down your coat, and come along here,—this way!” “Excuse me, Nastasia Petrovna, but I don’t understand what you are driving at!” “Oh! you’ll understand fast enough if you just bend down here and listen! The comedy is probably just beginning!” “What comedy?”