“I think you might have spared me that,” murmured the prince reproachfully, almost in a whisper.
“Don’t be angry; she is a wilful, mad, spoilt girl. If she likes a person she will pitch into him, and chaff him. I used to be just such another. But for all that you needn’t flatter yourself, my boy; she is not for you. I don’t believe it, and it is not to be. I tell you so at once, so that you may take proper precautions. Now, I want to hear you swear that you are not married to that woman?”
“Lizabetha Prokofievna, what are you thinking of?” cried the prince, almost leaping to his feet in amazement.
“Why? You very nearly were, anyhow.”
“Yes—I nearly was,” whispered the prince, hanging his head.
“Well then, have you come here for her? Are you in love with her? With that creature?”
“I did not come to marry at all,” replied the prince.
“Is there anything you hold sacred?”
“There is.”
“Then swear by it that you did not come here to marry her!”