“I wonder the Lembkes are not ashamed to look on!”
“Why should they be ashamed? You are not.”
“Yes, I am ashamed, and he is the governor.”
“And you are a pig.”
“I’ve never seen such a commonplace ball in my life,” a lady observed viciously, quite close to Yulia Mihailovna, obviously with the intention of being overheard. She was a stout lady of forty with rouge on her cheeks, wearing a bright-coloured silk dress. Almost every one in the town knew her, but no one received her. She was the widow of a civil councillor, who had left her a wooden house and a small pension; but she lived well and kept horses. Two months previously she had called on Yulia Mihailovna, but the latter had not received her.
“That might have been foreseen,” she added, looking insolently into Yulia Mihailovna’s face.
“If you could foresee it, why did you come?” Yulia Mihailovna could not resist saying.
“Because I was too simple,” the sprightly lady answered instantly, up in arms and eager for the fray; but the general intervened.
“Chère dame”—he bent over to Yulia Mihailovna—“you’d really better be going. We are only in their way and they’ll enjoy themselves thoroughly without us. You’ve done your part, you’ve opened the ball, now leave them in peace. And Andrey Antonovitch doesn’t seem to be feeling quite satisfactorily.… To avoid trouble.”
But it was too late.