when she heard Arkady's surname. She asked him whether he was not the son of Nikolai Petrovitch.
'Yes.'
'I have seen your father twice, and have heard a great deal about him,' she went on; 'I am glad to make your acquaintance.'
At that instant some adjutant flew up to her and begged for a quadrille. She consented.
'Do you dance then?' asked Arkady respectfully.
'Yes, I dance. Why do you suppose I don't dance? Do you think I am too old?'
'Really, how could I possibly.... But in that case, let me ask you for a mazurka.'
Madame Odintsov smiled graciously. 'Certainly,' she said, and she looked at Arkady not exactly with an air of superiority, but as married sisters look at very young brothers. Madame Odintsov was a little older than Arkady—she was twenty-nine—but in her presence he felt himself a schoolboy, a little student, so that the difference in age between them seemed of more consequence. Matvy Ilyitch approached her with a majestic air and ingratiating speeches. Arkady moved away, but he still watched her; he could not take his eyes off her even during the quadrille. She talked with equal ease to her partner and to
