Nejdanov did not utter a word, but looked at his companion sideways.
“Listen,” she continued, “it’s no use pretending; I don’t like Valentina Mihailovna, and you know that well enough. I may seem unjust ... but I want you to hear me first—”
Mariana’s voice gave way. She suddenly flushed with emotion; under emotion she always gave one the impression of being angry.
“You are no doubt asking yourself, ‘Why does this tiresome young lady tell me all this?’ just as you must have done when I spoke to you ... about Mr. Markelov.”
She bent down, tore off a small mushroom, broke it to pieces, and threw it away.
“You are quite mistaken, Mariana Vikentievna,” Nejdanov remarked. “On the contrary, I am pleased to think that I inspire you with confidence.”
This was not true, the idea had only just occurred to him.
Mariana glanced at him for a moment. Until then she had persistently looked away from him.
“It is not that you inspire me with confidence exactly,” she went on pensively; “you are quite a stranger to me. But your position—and mine—are very similar. We are both alike—unhappy; that is a bond between us.”
“Are you unhappy?” Nejdanov asked.