“I’ll tell her, sir,” said Alexey Yegorytch, with distress in his voice, dropping his eyes.
“Not till you see clearly she’s meaning to come and see me of herself, though.”
“Don’t be afraid, sir, there shall be no mistake. Your interviews have all passed through me, hitherto. You’ve always turned to me for help.”
“I know. Not till she comes of herself, anyway. Bring me some tea, if you can, at once.”
The old man had hardly gone out, when almost at the same instant the door reopened, and Darya Pavlovna appeared in the doorway. Her eyes were tranquil, though her face was pale.
“Where have you come from?” exclaimed Stavrogin.
“I was standing there, and waiting for him to go out, to come in to you. I heard the order you gave him, and when he came out just now I hid round the corner, on the right, and he didn’t notice me.”
“I’ve long meant to break off with you, Dasha … for a while … for the present. I couldn’t see you last night, in spite of your note. I meant to write to you myself, but I don’t know how to write,” he added with vexation, almost as though with disgust.
“I thought myself that we must break it off. Varvara Petrovna is too suspicious of our relations.”
“Well, let her be.”