Mariana’s pallor increased.
“I must ask you to express yourself more clearly, Valentina Mihailovna. What is it you are displeased about?”
“L’insolente!” Madame Sipiagina thought, but contained herself.
“Do you want to know why I am displeased with you, Mariana? Then I must tell you that I disapprove of your prolonged interviews with a young man who is very much beneath you in birth, breeding, and social position. I am displeased ... no! this word is far too mild—I am shocked at your late ... your night visits to this young man! And where does it happen? Under my own roof! Perhaps you see nothing wrong in it and think that it has nothing to do with me, that I should be silent and thereby screen your disgraceful conduct. As an honourable woman ... oui, mademoiselle, je l’ai été, je le suis, et je le serai toujours! I can’t help being horrified at such proceedings!”
Valentina Mihailovna threw herself into an armchair as if overcome by her indignation. Mariana smiled for the first time.
“I do not doubt your honour—past, present, and to come,” she began; “and I mean this quite sincerely. Your indignation is needless. I have brought no shame on your house. The young man whom you alluded to ... yes, I have certainly ... fallen in love with him.”
“You love Mr. Nejdanov?”
“Yes, I love him.”
Valentina Mihailovna sat up straight in her chair.
“But, Mariana! he’s only a student, of no birth, no family, and he is younger than you are!” (These words were pronounced not without a certain spiteful pleasure.) “What earthly good can come of it? What do you see in him? He is only an empty-headed boy.”