The tiny calash started, and rolled softly away.
“How old is your mother?”—inquired Vladímir Sergyéitch.
“Only in her seventy-third year; but it is twenty-six years since her legs failed her; that happened soon after the demise of my late father. But she used to be a beauty.”
All remained silent for a while.
Suddenly, Nadézhda Alexyéevna gave a start. “Was that—a bat flying past? Áï, what a fright!”
And she hastily returned to the drawing-room.
“It is time for me to go home, Mikhaíl Nikoláitch; order my horse to be saddled.”
“And it is time for me to be going, too,”—remarked Vladímir Sergyéitch.
“Where are you going?”—said Ipátoff.—“Spend the night here. Nadézhda Alexyéevna has only two versts to ride, while you have fully twelve. And what’s your hurry, too, Nadézhda Alexyéevna? Wait for the moon; it will soon be up now. It will be lighter to ride.”
“Very well,”—said Nadézhda Alexyéevna.—“It is a long time since I had a moonlight ride.”