Three years passed. The greater part of that time I spent in Petersburg and abroad; and even when I did run down to my place in the country, it was only for a few days at a time, so that I never chanced to be in Glínnoe or in Mikhaílovskoe on a single occasion. Nowhere had I seen my beauty nor the man. One day, toward the end of the third year, in Moscow, I chanced to meet Madame Shlýkoff and her sister, Pelagéya Badáeff—that same Pelagéya whom I, sinful man that I am, had hitherto regarded as a mythical being—at an evening gathering in the house of one of my acquaintances. Neither of the ladies was any longer young, and both possessed pleasing exteriors; their conversation was characterised by wit and mirth: they had travelled a great deal, and travelled with profit; easy gaiety was observable in their manners. But they and my acquaintance had positively nothing in common. I was presented to them. Madame Shlýkoff and I dropped into conversation (her sister was being entertained by a passing geologist). I informed her that I had the pleasure of being her neighbour in *** county.
"Ah! I really do possess a small estate there,"—she remarked,—"near Glínnoe."
"Exactly, exactly,"—I returned:—"I know your Mikhaílovskoe. Do you ever go thither?"
"I?—Rarely."
"Were you there three years ago?"
"Stay! I think I was. Yes, I was, that is true."
"With your sister, or alone?"
She darted a glance at me.
"With my sister. We spent about a week there. On business, you know. However, we saw no one."
"H'm.... I think there are very few neighbours there."