“Alone.... Evidently, something has detained Piótr Alexyéevitch.”
Márya Pávlovna darted a sidelong glance from beneath her brows, a flush overspread her face, and she turned away.
In the meantime, the horsewoman had ridden through the wicket-gate into the garden, galloped up to the terrace, and sprang lightly to the ground, without waiting either for her groom or for Ipátoff, who had started to meet her. Briskly gathering up the train of her riding-habit, she ran up the steps, and springing upon the terrace, exclaimed blithely:
“Here I am!”
“Welcome!”—said Ipátoff.—“How unexpected, how charming this is! Allow me to kiss your hand....”
“Certainly,”—returned the visitor; “only, you must pull off the glove yourself.—I cannot.” And, extending her hand to him, she nodded to Márya Pávlovna.—“Just fancy, Másha, my brother will not be here to-day,”—she said, with a little sigh.
“I see for myself that he is not here,”—replied Márya Pávlovna in an undertone.
“He bade me say to thee that he is busy. Thou must not be angry. Good morning, Egór Kapítonitch; good morning, Iván Ílitch; good morning, children.... Vásya,”—added the guest, turning to her small groom,—“order them to walk Little Beauty up and down well, dost hear? Másha, please give me a pin, to fasten up my train.... Come here, Mikhaíl Nikoláitch.”
Ipátoff went closer to her.
“Who is that new person?”—she asked, quite loudly.