Byelovzóroff entered; I was delighted to see him.
“I have not found you a gentle saddle-horse,”—he began in a surly tone;—“Freitag vouches to me for one—but I am not convinced. I am afraid.”
“Of what are you afraid, allow me to inquire?” asked Zinaída.
“Of what? Why, you don’t know how to ride. God forbid that any accident should happen! And what has put that freak into your head?”
“Come, that’s my affair, M’sieu my wild beast. In that case, I will ask Piótr Vasílievitch”.... (My father was called Piótr Vasílievitch.... I was amazed that she should mention his name so lightly and freely, exactly as though she were convinced of his readiness to serve her.)
“You don’t say so!”—retorted Byelovzóroff.—“Is it with him that you wish to ride?”
“With him or some one else,—that makes no difference to you. Only not with you.”
“Not with me,”—said Byelovzóroff.—“As you like. What does it matter? I will get you the horse.”
“But see to it that it is not a cow-like beast. I warn you in advance that I mean to gallop.”
“Gallop, if you wish.... But is it with Malévsky that you are going to ride?”