This word fell from him unconsciously. In the paper Marianna held in her hands there was wrapped up, in reality, her portrait, given to Nezhdanov by Markelov.
'A portrait?' she articulated in a voice of surprise.. . . 'A woman's?'
She gave him the little parcel, but he took it awkwardly; it almost slipped out of his hands and fell open.
'Why, it's . . . my portrait!' cried Marianna quickly. 'Well, I've a right to take my own portrait.' She took it from Nezhdanov.
'Did you sketch this?'
'No . . . not I.'
'Who, then? Markelov?'
'You've guessed. . . . It was he.'
'How did you come by it?'
'He gave it to me.'
'When?'
Nezhdanov told her how and when it had been given. Whilst he was speaking, Marianna glanced first at him and then at the portrait . . . and the same thought flashed through the heads of both: 'If he were in this room, he would have the right to ask.' . . . But neither Marianna nor Nezhdanov uttered this thought aloud . . . possibly because each of them was conscious of the thought in the other.
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