"But excuse me, excuse me,"—returned Rogatchyóff, without rising from his seat;—"you order me? I myself have sought the hand of Olga Ivánovna, and there is no need to order me. I must confess, Vasíly Ivánovitch, somehow, I don't understand you...."
"Thou dost not understand?"
"No, really, I don't understand, sir."
"Wilt thou give me thy word to marry her to-morrow?"
"Why, good gracious, Vasíly Ivánovitch .... have n't you yourself repeatedly postponed our marriage? If it had not been for you, it would have taken place long ago. And even now I have no idea of refusing. But what is the meaning of your threats, of your urgent demands?"
Pável Afanásievitch wiped the perspiration from his face.
"Wilt thou give me thy word? Speak! Yes, or no?"—repeated Vasíly with pauses between his words.
"Certainly ... I give it, sir, but ...."
"Good. Remember.... And she has confessed everything."
"Who has confessed?"