“Oh, yes,” said Nekhludoff decidedly.
“It all depends on her; I only wish that this suffering soul should find rest,” said Simonson, with such childlike tenderness as no one could have expected from so morose-looking a man.
Simonson rose, and stretching his lips out to Nekhludoff, smiled shyly and kissed him.
“So I shall tell her,” and he went away.
CHAPTER XVII. “I HAVE NOTHING MORE TO SAY.”
“What do you think of that?” said Mary Pavlovna. “In love—quite in love. Now, that’s a thing I never should have expected, that Valdemar Simonson should be in love, and in the silliest, most boyish manner. It is strange, and, to say the truth, it is sad,” and she sighed.
“But she? Katusha? How does she look at it, do you think?” Nekhludoff asked.
“She?” Mary Pavlovna waited, evidently wishing to give as exact an answer as possible. “She? Well, you see, in spite of her past she has one of the most moral natures—and such fine feelings. She loves you—loves you well, and is happy to be able to do you even the negative good of not letting you get entangled with her. Marriage with you would be a terrible fall for her, worse than all that’s past, and therefore she will never consent to it. And yet your presence troubles her.”
“Well, what am I to do? Ought I to vanish?”