“She is out of sorts to-day,”—remarked Nadézhda Alexyéevna;—“and I know why,”—she added in an undertone.—“But it will pass off.”
“Allow me to inquire,”—began Vladímir Sergyéitch,—“where you intend to spend the winter?”
“Perhaps here, perhaps in Petersburg. It seems to me that I shall be bored in Petersburg.”
“In Petersburg! Good gracious! How is that possible?”
And Vladímir Sergyéitch began to describe all the comforts, advantages, and charm of life in our capital. Nadézhda Alexyéevna listened to him with attention, never taking her eyes from him. She seemed to be committing his features to memory, and laughed to herself from time to time.
“I see that you are very eloquent,”—she said at last.—“I shall be obliged to spend the winter in Petersburg.”
“You will not repent of it,”—remarked Vladímir Sergyéitch.
“I never repent of anything; it is not worth the bother. If you have perpetrated a blunder, try to forget it as speedily as possible—that’s all.”
“Allow me to ask,”—began Vladímir Sergyéitch, after a brief pause, and in the French language;—“have you known Márya Pávlovna long?”
“Allow me to ask,”—retorted Nadézhda Alexyéevna, with a swift laugh;—“why you have put precisely that question to me in French?”