“No matter,” thought Alexey Alexandrovitch, “so much the better. I will inform him at once of my position in regard to his sister, and explain why it is I can’t dine with him.”
“Come in!” he said aloud, collecting his papers, and putting them in the blotting-paper.
“There, you see, you’re talking nonsense, and he’s at home!” responded Stepan Arkadyevitch’s voice, addressing the servant, who had refused to let him in, and taking off his coat as he went, Oblonsky walked into the room. “Well, I’m awfully glad I’ve found you! So I hope....” Stepan Arkadyevitch began cheerfully.
“I cannot come,” Alexey Alexandrovitch said coldly, standing and not asking his visitor to sit down.
Alexey Alexandrovitch had thought to pass at once into those frigid relations in which he ought to stand with the brother of a wife against whom he was beginning a suit for divorce. But he had not taken into account the ocean of kindliness brimming over in the heart of Stepan Arkadyevitch.
Stepan Arkadyevitch opened wide his clear, shining eyes.
“Why can’t you? What do you mean?” he asked in perplexity, speaking in French. “Oh, but it’s a promise. And we’re all counting on you.”
“I want to tell you that I can’t dine at your house, because the terms of relationship which have existed between us must cease.”
“How? How do you mean? What for?” said Stepan Arkadyevitch with a smile.
“Because I am beginning an action for divorce against your sister, my wife. I ought to have....”