Nejdanov sat up straight.
“For us?”
“No, for Markelov. He wanted to ask him to intercede for us too ... but I wouldn’t let him. Have I done well, Alexai?”
“Have you done well?” Nejdanov asked and without rising from his chair, stretched out his arms to her. “Have you done well?” he repeated, drawing her close to him, and pressing his face against her waist, suddenly burst into tears.
“What is the matter? What is the matter with you?” Mariana exclaimed. And as on the day when he had fallen on his knees before her, trembling and breathless in a torrent of passion, she laid both her hands on his trembling head. But what she felt now was quite different from what she had felt then. Then she had given herself up to him—had submitted to him and only waited to hear what he would say next, but now she pitied him and only wondered what she could do to calm him.
“What is the matter with you?” she repeated. “Why are you crying? Not because you came home in a somewhat ... strange condition? It can’t be! Or are you sorry for Markelov—afraid for me, for yourself? Or is it for our lost hopes? You did not really expect that everything would go off smoothly!”
Nejdanov suddenly lifted his head.
“It’s not that, Mariana,” he said, mastering his sobs by an effort, “I am not afraid for either of us ... but ... I am sorry——”
“For whom?”
“For you, Mariana! I am sorry that you should have united your fate with a man who is not worthy of you.”