‘Go away, my lad, go away,’ persisted Harlov. ‘What do you want to talk to me for?’
‘If you have no carriage, mamma will send you hers.’
‘Go along!’
‘But, really and truly, Martin Petrovitch!’
Harlov looked down again, and I fancied that his cheeks, dingy as though covered with earth, faintly flushed.
‘Really, do come,’ I went on. ‘What’s the use of your sitting here? of your making yourself miserable?’
‘Making myself miserable?’ he commented hesitatingly.
‘Yes, to be sure—making yourself miserable!’ I repeated.
Harlov said nothing, and seemed lost in musing. Emboldened by his silence, I determined to be open, to act straightforwardly, bluntly. (Do not forget, I was only fifteen then.)
‘Martin Petrovitch!’ I began, seating myself beside him. ‘I know everything, you see, positively everything. I know how your son-in-law is treating you—doubtless with the consent of your daughters. And now you are in such a position.… But why lose heart?’