“He declares that your humbug of a landlord revised this gentleman’s article—the article that was read aloud just now—in which you got such a charming dressing-down.”
The prince regarded Lebedeff with astonishment.
“Why don’t you say something?” cried Lizabetha Prokofievna, stamping her foot.
“Well,” murmured the prince, with his eyes still fixed on Lebedeff, “I can see now that he did.”
“Is it true?” she asked eagerly.
“Absolutely, your excellency,” said Lebedeff, without the least hesitation.
Mrs. Epanchin almost sprang up in amazement at his answer, and at the assurance of his tone.
“He actually seems to boast of it!” she cried.
“I am base—base!” muttered Lebedeff, beating his breast, and hanging his head.
“What do I care if you are base or not? He thinks he has only to say, ‘I am base,’ and there is an end of it. As to you, prince, are you not ashamed?—I repeat, are you not ashamed, to mix with such riff-raff? I will never forgive you!”