Mother and aunt had gone a long way into the future, and when they were about as far as the christening of the third child, Marfa Egorovna noticed in the garden among the bushes a head which was now hidden, then again cautiously raised to reconnoitre. She recognised her son, and pointed him out to Tatiana Markovna. They called him, but when he at last decided to enter, he hung about in the ante-room, as if he were making himself presentable.
“You are welcome, Nikolai Andreevich,” said Tatiana Markovna pointedly, while his mother looked at him ironically.
“Good morning, Tatiana Markovna,” he stammered at last, and kissed the old lady’s hand. “I have bought tickets for the charity concert, for you and Mama, for Vera Vassilievna and Marfa Vassilievna and for Boris Pavlovich. It’s a splendid concert ... the first singer in Moscow....”
“Why do we need to go to concerts?” interrupted Tatiana Markovna, looking at him sideways. “The nightingales sing so finely here. In the evening we go into the garden, and can hear them for nothing.”
Marfa Egorovna bit her lip, but Vikentev stood transfixed.
“Sit down, Nikolai Andreevich,” continued the old lady seriously and reproachfully, “and listen to what I have to say. What does your conscience tell you? How have you rewarded my confidence?”
“Don’t make fun of me ... it’s unkind.”
“I am not joking. It wasn’t right of you, my friend, to speak to Marfinka, and not to me. Supposing I had not consented?”
“If you had not consented I would have....”
“What?”