About two hours before dinner they suddenly found themselves alone in the drawing-room. They both felt that the inevitable moment for the battle had arrived and, after a moment’s hesitation, instinctively drew near to one another. Valentina Mihailovna was slightly smiling, Mariana pressed her lips firmly together; both were pale. When walking across the room, Valentina Mihailovna looked uneasily to the right and left and tore off a geranium leaf. Mariana’s eyes were fixed straight on the smiling face coming towards her. Madame Sipiagina was the first to stop, and drumming her finger-tips on the back of a chair began in a free and easy tone:
“Mariana Vikentievna, it seems that we have entered upon a correspondence with one another.... Living under the same roof as we do it strikes me as being rather strange. And you know I am not very fond of strange things.”
“I did not begin the correspondence, Valentina Mihailovna.”
“That is true. As it happens, I am to blame in that. Only I could not think of any other means of arousing in you a feeling ... how shall I say? A feeling—”
“You can speak quite plainly, Valentina Mihailovna. You need not be afraid of offending me.”
“A feeling ... of propriety.”
Valentina Mihailovna ceased; nothing but the drumming of her fingers could be heard in the room.
“In what way do you think I have failed to observe the rules of propriety?” Mariana asked.
Valentina Mihailovna shrugged her shoulders.
“Ma chère, vous n’êtes plus un enfant—I think you know what I mean. Do you suppose that your behaviour could have remained a secret to me, to Anna Zaharovna, to the whole household in fact? However, I must say you are not over-particular about secrecy. You simply acted in bravado. Only Boris Andraevitch does not know what you have done.... But he is occupied with far more serious and important matters. Apart from him, everybody else knows, everybody!”