“Yes—don’t be angry, Nikolai Ilitch!”
Belayeff rose and began pacing up and down the room.
“How strange this is—and how ridiculous!” he muttered shrugging his shoulders and smiling sarcastically. “It is all his fault and yet he says I have ruined her! What an innocent baby this is! And so he told you I had ruined your mother?”
“Yes, but—you promised not to be angry!”
“I’m not angry and—and it is none of your business anyway. Yes, this is—this is really ridiculous! Here I have been caught like a mouse in a trap, and now it seems it is all my fault!”
The door-bell rang. The boy tore himself from Belayeff’s arms and ran out of the room. A moment later a lady entered with a little girl. It was Aliosha’s mother, Olga Ivanovna. Aliosha skipped into the room behind her, singing loudly and clapping his hands. Belayeff nodded and continued to walk up and down.
“Of course!” he muttered. “Whom should he blame but me? He has right on his side! He is the injured husband.”
“What is that you are saying?” asked Olga Ivanovna.
“What am I saying? Just listen to what your young hopeful here has been preaching. It appears that I am a wicked scoundrel and that I have ruined you and your children. You are all unhappy, and I alone am frightfully happy. Frightfully, frightfully happy!”
“I don’t understand you, Nikolai. What is the matter?”