Before he had time to analyse his feelings the loud din of the prisoners’ voices came in with a rush (something special was going on among them to-day) as the door opened to let Katusha in.
She stepped briskly close up to him and said, “Mary Pavlovna has sent me.”
“Yes, I must have a talk with you. Sit down. Valdemar Simonson has been speaking to me.”
She sat down and folded her hands in her lap and seemed quite calm, but hardly had Nekhludoff uttered Simonson’s name when she flushed crimson.
“What did he say?” she asked.
“He told me he wanted to marry you.”
Her face suddenly puckered up with pain, but she said nothing and only cast down her eyes.
“He is asking for my consent or my advice. I told him that it all depends entirely on you—that you must decide.”
“Ah, what does it all mean? Why?” she muttered, and looked in his eyes with that peculiar squint that always strangely affected Nekhludoff.
They sat silent for a few minutes looking into each other’s eyes, and this look told much to both of them.