“Are you such a ... punctual man?”
“I try to be a punctual man,”—replied Vladímir Sergyéitch.—“In our sedate era, every honourable man must be sedate and punctual.”
“That is perfectly just,”—remarked Ipátoff.—“Isn’t that true Iván Ílitch?”
Iván Ílitch merely glanced at Ipátoff; but Egór Kapítonitch remarked:
“Yes, that’s so.”
“‘Tis a pity,”—said Nadézhda Alexyéevna;—“precisely what we lack is a jeune premier. You know how to act comedy, I suppose?”
“I have never put my powers in that line to the test.”
“I am convinced that you would act well. You have that sort of bearing ... a stately mien, which is indispensable in a jeune premier. My brother and I are preparing to set up a theatre here. However, we shall not act comedies only: we shall act all sorts of things—dramas, ballets, and even tragedies. Why wouldn’t Másha do for Cleopatra or Phèdre? Just look at her!”
Vladímir Sergyéitch turned round.... Márya Pávlovna was gazing thoughtfully into the distance, as she stood leaning her head against the door, with folded arms.... At that moment, her regular features really did suggest the faces of ancient statues. She did not catch Nadézhda Alexyéevna’s last words; but, perceiving that the glances of all present were suddenly directed to her, she immediately divined what was going on, blushed, and was about to retreat into the drawing-room.... Nadézhda Alexyéevna briskly grasped her by the hand and, with the coquettish caressing action of a kitten, drew her toward her, and kissed that almost masculine hand. Márya Pávlovna flushed more vividly than before.