“My dear Petya, you shouldn’t have done that. It isn’t hospitable. You were looking all the time at Trirodov as if you were getting ready to send him to all the devils.”
Piotr replied with a controlled gruffness:
“Yes, precisely, to all the devils. You have guessed my feelings, uncle.”
Rameyev eyed him incredulously and said:
“Why, my dear fellow?”
“Why?” repeated Piotr, giving free rein to his irritation. “What is he? A charlatan? A visionary? A magician? Is he in partnership with some unclean power? What do you think of it? Or is it the devil himself come in a human shape—a little grey, cloven-hoofed demon?”
“That’s enough, Petya; what are you saying?” said Rameyev with annoyance.
Elisaveta smiled an incredulous smile, full of gentle irony; a golden, saddened smile, set off by the melancholy yellow rose in her black hair. And Elena’s astonished eyes dilated widely.
“Think it over yourself, uncle,” went on Piotr, “and look around you. He has bewitched our little girls completely!”
“Well, if he has,” said Elena with a gay smile, “it’s only just a little as far as I am concerned.”