Nadézhda Alexyéevna merely shook her head.
“I shall not quarrel with you; you must know best about that,”—remarked Vladímir Sergyéitch, somewhat sulkily.—“That’s not in my line.”
“I made a mistake, pardon me,”—ejaculated Véretyeff, hastily.
In the meantime, the game of cards had come to an end.
“Akh, by the way,”—said Ipátoff, as he rose;—“Vladímir Sergyéitch, one of the local landed proprietors, a neighbour, a very fine and worthy man, Akílin, Gavríla Stepánitch, has commissioned me to ask you whether you will not do him the honour to be present at his ball,—that is, I just put it so, for beauty of style, and said ‘ball,’ but it is only an evening party with dancing, quite informal. He would have called upon you himself without fail, only he was afraid of disturbing you.”
“I am much obliged to the gentleman,”—returned Vladímir Sergyéitch;—“but it is imperatively necessary that I should return home....”
“Why—but when do you suppose the ball takes place? ’Tis to-morrow. To-morrow is Gavríla Stepánitch’s Name-day. One day more won’t matter, and how much pleasure you will give him! And it’s only ten versts from here. If you will allow, we will take you thither.”
“Really, I don’t know,”—began Vladímir Sergyéitch.—“And are you going?”
“The whole family! And Nadézhda Alexyéevna and Piótr Alexyéitch,—everybody is going!”
“You may invite me on the spot for the fifth quadrille, if you like,”—remarked Nadézhda Alexyéevna.—“The first four are already bespoken.”