at the wonderful eyes, at the pink, faintly touched-up lips, at the white hands, with the slightly parted fingers adorned with rings, which the elegant lady was pressing so expressively to the bodice of her silk gown,—and suddenly she cut her short.
'A match, do you say, Valentina Mihalovna? Do you mean by a "match" that heartless, vulgar friend of yours, Mr. Kallomyetsev?'
Valentina Mihalovna took her fingers from her bodice.
'Yes, Marianna Vikentyevna, I mean Mr. Kallomyetsev—that cultivated, excellent young man, who will certainly make a wife happy, and whom no one but a madwoman could refuse—no one but a madwoman!'
'What's to be done, ma tante? It would seem I am one.'
'But what fault—what serious fault—do you find with him?'
'Oh, none at all. I despise him . . . that's all.'
Valentina Mihalovna shook her head from side to side impatiently, and again sank into an arm-chair.
'Let him be. Retournons à nos moutons. And so you love Mr. Nezhdanov?'
'Yes.'
'And you intend to continue . . . your interviews with him?'
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