Véretyeff darted a glance at her.

“Másha, are you angry?”—he repeated.

Márya Pávlovna scanned him with a swift glance from head to foot turned slightly away, and said:

“Yes.”

“What for?”—asked Véretyeff, and flung away his branch.

Again Márya Pávlovna made no reply.

“But, as a matter of fact, you have a right to be angry with me,”—began Véretyeff, after a brief pause.—“You must regard me as a man who is not only frivolous, but even....”

“You do not understand me,”—interrupted Márya Pávlovna.—“I am not in the least angry with you on my own account.”

“On whose account, then?”

“On your own.”