“Yes. I have heard of it.”
“No, I had better go, and you must come again, to-night or to-morrow,” she said, and went to the door with quick, light steps.
“I cannot come to-night,” he said, going out after her; “but I have a request to make you,” and he looked at the pair of bays that were drawing up to the front door.
“What is this?”
“This is a letter from aunt to you,” said Nekhludoff, handing her a narrow envelope, with a large crest. “You’ll find all about it in there.”
“I know Countess Katerina Ivanovna thinks I have some influence with my husband in business matters. She is mistaken. I can do nothing and do not like to interfere. But, of course, for you I am willing to be false to my principle. What is this business about?” she said, searching in vain for her pocket with her little black gloved hand.
“There is a girl imprisoned in the fortress, and she is ill and innocent.”
“What is her name?”
“Lydia Shoustova. It’s in the note.”
“All right; I’ll see what I can do,” she said, and lightly jumped into her little, softly upholstered, open carriage, its brightly-varnished splash-guards glistening in the sunshine, and opened her parasol. The footman got on the box and gave the coachman a sign. The carriage moved, but at that moment she touched the coachman with her parasol and the slim-legged beauties, the bay mares, stopped, bending their beautiful necks and stepping from foot to foot.