“You must contribute towards the Home fund.”
“I am not refusing, but only wish to keep my bounty fresh for the lottery. There I shall let it appear in all its glory.”
“Well, look out for yourself,” said a voice, followed by an evidently feigned laugh.
Anna Ignatievna was in raptures; her “at-home” had turned out a brilliant success. “Micky tells me you are busying yourself with prison work. I can understand you so well,” she said to Nekhludoff. “Micky (she meant her fat husband, Maslennikoff) may have other defects, but you know how kind-hearted he is. All these miserable prisoners are his children. He does not regard them in any other light. Il est d’une bonte—-” and she stopped, finding no words to do justice to this bonte of his, and quickly turned to a shrivelled old woman with bows of lilac ribbon all over, who came in just then.
Having said as much as was absolutely necessary, and with as little meaning as conventionality required, Nekhludoff rose and went up to Meslennikoff. “Can you give me a few minutes’ hearing, please?”
“Oh, yes. Well, what is it?”
“Let us come in here.”
They entered a small Japanese sitting-room, and sat down by the window.