Bärenburg draws out his card and hands it to him; at the same moment the Countess d'Olbreuse comes up to her.
The Russian has disappeared. "Have you entertained yourself well, my child?" says she. "I have danced comme une perdue; it is not suitable for a woman of my age. Now we can go, the ball begins to be too amusing."
Silently, laying the extreme tips of her fingers in Bärenburg's offered arm, Mascha follows the Countess and her cavalier into the ante-room.
Suddenly she raises her head. "Why did you prevent me from dancing with the Prince?" she asks in an angry tone.
"First, he was intoxicated; secondly--but that you do not understand-- secondly, he has such a horrible reputation that I would rather see my sister dance with a clown from the circus ring, for example, than with him. To dance with Orbanoff at a public ball when you had not moved your foot before, and at two o'clock in the morning, would be something so fearful, so ambiguous, so--well, I would rather have my right arm cut off than let you do it."
They now stand in the ante-room. Bärenburg takes Mascha's wrap from the servant and lays it about her shoulders. But Mascha's rage flames stronger than ever. More than before she feels the need to pain him, to injure him, to insult him.
"So you would let your right arm be cut off for me! How easily that is said," mocks she. Then looking him full in the face:
"I am very much obliged to you for your good intentions, but I should have preferred that you had not further troubled yourself with my affairs. I have known the Prince longer than you."
Scarcely has she said these impolite words when she would give everything in the world to recall them. It is too late.
"I was wrong; pardon me," says he, shortly. And taking leave with a deep bow, first of her and then of Countess d'Olbreuse, he retires without another word.